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WORKS  BY  THE   SAME  AUTHOR 

RECENTLY    PUBLISHED. 

THE  LIN  WOODS  ;  or,  Sixty  years  since  in  America.    2  vols. 
12mo. 

THE  POOR  RICH  MAN  AND  THE  RICH  POOR  MAN 
18mo. 

LIVE  AND  LET  LIVE;  or,  Domestic  Service  Illustrated. 
18mo. 


LOVE   TOKEN   FOR    CHILDREN. 


DESIGNED    FOR   SUNDAY-SCHOOL   LIBRARIES. 


BY   THE   AUTHOR   OF 

"THE  LIN  WOODS,"  "LIVE  AND  LET  LIVE,* 
"POOR  RICH  MAN,"  &c,  &c. 


■  There  be  things  which  are  little  upon  the  earth,  but  they  are  exceeding  wise." 


NEW-YORK: 

HARPER   &    BROTHERS,   82   CLIFF-ST. 
18  44. 


[Entered,  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1837,  by 

Harper  &  Brothers, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  Southern  District  of  New- York.] 


TO 

ELIZABETH   HOWARD, 

OF  BOSTON, 
THIS   LITTLE   BOOK,    WRITTEN   AT  HEB   BEQUEST, 

is  instxibzXi, 

BY  HEB  AFFECTIONATE  FBIEND. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


CONTENTS. 


Pago 
The  Widow  Ellis  and  her  son  Willie  ........      9 

The  Magic  Lamp 34 

Our  Robins 40 

Old  Rover .53 

The  Chain  of  Love 69 

Mill-hill 78 

Mill-hill  (Part  Second) ' 95 

The  Bantem 137 


THE    WIDOW    ELLIS 


HER    SON   WILLIE. 


OVERCOME  EVIL  WITH  GOOD. 

I  have  known  few  happier  people  than  the  Widow 
Ellis  and  her  son  William,  or  Willie,  as  he  was 
called  in  the  neighbourhood.  Do  you  imagine 
Widow  Ellis  was  rich  1  Do  you  think  she  lived  in 
a  big  house,  and  that  she  had  plenty  of  handsome 
furniture,  and  horses,  and  carriages,  and  a  large 
garden,  and  plenty  of  people  to  serve  her,  and  rich 
relations,  and  troops  of  friends  ?  And  do  you  think 
Willie,  my  bright,  happy  little  friend  Willie,  had 
quantities  of  clothes,  new  books  whenever  he  de- 
sired them,  a  printing-press,  paint-box,  pencils,  a 
magic  lantern,  and  all  the  toys,  useful  and  useless, 
that  are  lavished  by  loving  friends  on  rich  boys  ? 
Think  you  he  had  a  pony  to  ride  ?  a  Newfound- 
land dog  to  play  with,  and  allowance-money  in  his 
purse  to  buy  what  he  liked  ?  No,  none  of  these 
things  made  the  happiness  of  the  Widow  Ellis  and 
her  son  Willie.     On  the  contrary,  they  wero  al- 


10  THE    WIDOW   ELLIS 

most  the  poorest  people,  save  those  miserable  be- 
ings the  town's  poor,  in  our  village. 

When  Mrs.  Ellis  was  first  married,  many  years 
ago,  she  moved  to  the  West.  She  had  six  chil- 
dren. •  She  lived  in  a  sickly  place,  and  one  after 
another  died,  and  last  of  all  her  husband.  None 
of  her  family  were  left  but  the  youngest,  Willie. 
Her  own  health  was  wretched ;  and,  believing  no- 
thing could  cure  her  but  coming  back  to  the  old 
place,  she  sold  her  little  property,  paid  her  debts, 
doctor  and  all,  came  back  to  our  village,  and  had 
just  enough  to  buy  that  little  old  brown  house  on 
the  slope,  at  the  turn  above  the  river,  where  those 
noble  elm-trees  hang  their  sweeping  branches  over 
the  road,  so  imbowering  it  that  our  village-girls 
(who  always  choose  that  way  for  their  twilight 
walks)  call  it  the  arbour.  There  is  a  small  patch 
of  land  on  the  east  side  of  the  widow's  house,  it 
may  be  the  tenth  of  an  acre,  which  she  made  into 
a  garden.  She  often  says,  it  is  well  for  her  it  is 
no  larger,  for  it  is  just  big  enough  for  her  and  Wil- 
liam to  plant,  and  sow,  and  keep  in  order.  It  is 
wonderful  how  much  she  gets  out  of  it !  Plenty  of 
potatoes  for  breakfast  and  dinner  all  the  year  round, 
and  often  a  good  mess  for  the  cow.  The  widow's 
money  held  out  to  buy  a  cow,  and  well  for  her  that  it 
did ;  for  this  cow,  till  she  lost  it,  half  supported  her. 
But  I  was  telling  you  how  full  her  garden  was. 
She  had  parsnips,  carrots,  onions,  turnips,  and  here 
and  there  a  cabbage  or  a  squash-vine,  cucumbers, 
and  a  little  patch  of  melons.  How  could  I  forget 
the  asparagus  which  Mrs.  Ellis  said  was  "  some- 
thing to  give  away,  for  everybody  did  not  raise  as- 
paragus, and  folks,  especially  old  folks,  were  very 


AND  HER   SON  WILLIE.  ^11 

fond  of  it."  There  was  a  row  of  currant-bushes, 
and,  latterly,  a  bed  of  strawberries.  In  one  corner 
there  were  medicinal  herbs  ;  country  people  make 
great  use  of  these  ;  and  when  sage  and  balm  could  be 
found  nowhere  else,  Widow  Ellis  had  always  "  some 
to  spare."  There  was  a  row  of  never-to-be-forgot- 
ten, caraway,  dill,  and  fennel.  The  old  women 
and  children  who  passed  that  way  on  Sunday  were 
in  the  habit  of  asking  a  few  heads  of  these  aromatic 
seeds  to  chew  at  meeting ;  a  rustic  custom,  which, 
we  are  happy  to  observe,  is  falling  into  disuse. 
Round  the  widow's  door — the  side-door  opens  into 
the  garden — there  were  rose-bushes,  pinks,  and 
heart's-ease  ;  and  throughout  the  garden,  here  and 
there,  from  May  till  October,  you  might  see  a 
flower,  looking  as  pleasant  among  the  cabbages, 
turnips,  &c,  as  a  smile  on  a  labourer's  face.  In- 
deed, the  Widow  Ellis's  garden  put  to  shame  the 
waste  places  called  (by  courtesy)  by  our  farmers 
gardens.  They  make  many  excuses  for  these  slov- 
enly places  which  we  cannot  now  stop  to  examine  ; 
but,  in  passing  along  to  the  story  of  little  Wiljie, 
we  will  just  repeat  what  Widow  Ellis  often  said 
when  busy  in  her  garden.  "  I  call  this  women's 
work.  I  have  been  weakly  for  many  years  ;  and, 
but  for  my  garden,  I  believe  I  should  have  been 
under  ground  long  ago.  There's  nothing  does  me 
so  much  good  as  smelling  the  fresh  earth.  I  be- 
lieve, if  our  farmer's  girls  would  take  care  of  their 
gardens,  they  would  look  fresher  than  they  do  now, 
and  feel  a  deal  better,  besides ,  getting  a  world  of 
comfort  for  the  family,  and  a  nice  present  for  a 
neighbour  now  and  then  out  of  it.  Besides," 
added  the  Widow  Ellis,  "  it's  so  teaching ;  I  seem 


12  THE  WIDOW  ELLIS 

to  see  God's  power  and  goodness  in  everything 
that  grows." 

The  next  house  to  the  Widow  Ellis,  between 
her  and  the  river,  a  large  brick  building,  is  Captain 
Nicholas  Stout's.  You  may  see  by  the  good  fences 
round  it,  and  the  big  barns,  corn-crib,  sheds,  &c,  be- 
hind it,  all  snug  and  sound,  that  the  captain  is  a 
wealthy,  industrious,  pains-taking  farmer.  An  hon- 
est man,  too,  is  the  captain ;  that  is,  as  honest  as 
a  man  can  be  who  is  selfish,  and  crabbed,  and 
thinks  so  much  of  his  own  property  and  rights  as 
to  care  very  little  for  his  neighbour's.  A  man  is 
called  honest  that  pays  his  debts,  and  does  not 
cheat  his  neighbours  ;  but  there  is  a  higher,  nobler 
honesty  than  that,  and  a  short  rule  for  the  practice 
of  it,  viz.,  "do  unto  others  as  ye  would  that  others 
should  do  unto  you."  The  captain  dijd  not  come 
up  to  this,  as  we  shall  see.  He  was  a  rough, 
hard-favoured  man,  and  had  a  crusty  way  of  speak- 
ing, particularly  to  children,  that  made  them  all 
dislike  him ;  and  I  believe  this  was  the  reason  the 
captain  was  so  apt  to  have  his  early  apples  and 
his  watermelons  stolen.  The  Widow  Ellis  had 
one  pear-tree  in  her  garden ;  delicious  pears  it  bore, 
too ;'  and  I  have  heard  her  say  she  didn't  believe  one 
pear  had  ever  been  stolen  from  it ;  indeed,  I  think 
the  boys  in  our  village  would  as  soon  have  cut  off 
their  fingers  as  have  stolen  one  of  her  pears.  Was 
it  right  to  steal  cross  Captain  Stout's  ?  Oh  no ;  but 
the  fact  that  his  were  stolen  and  hers  were  not, 
shows  how  one  person  doing  wrong  leads  to  an- 
other doing  it  too. 

The  captain  had  a  large  garden,  or  rather  a 
large  garden-spot ;  like  most  of  our  farmer's  gar- 


AND  HER   SON  WILLIE.  13 

dens,  it  was  much  overgrown  with  weeds,  and 
had  little  besides  potatoes,  cabbages,  and  a  few 
flaunting  hollyhocks  in  it.  To  have  seen  the  veg- 
etables on  the  Widow  Ellis's  table  and  the  cap- 
tain's, you  would  have  taken  her  to  be  the  richer 
person  of  the  two. 

Some  years  ago,  when  Willie  was  about  eleven, 
his  mother  let  him  hire  himself  to  one  of  our  farm- 
ers for  a  few  of  the  busy  spring  weeks.  The  people 
who  employed  him  were  much  pleased  with  his  in* 
dustry  and  kindness  ;  and  when  he  was  coming 
away,  Mrs.  Hart,  the  farmer's  wife,  said,  "  Willie, 
you  have  always  been  very  good-natured  and  obli- 
ging to  me,  and  you  have  set  an  excellent  example  to 
my  boys  ;  I  want  to  make  you  some  little  present 
that  will  please  you."  Then  she  brought  out  of  her 
pantry  four  duck's  eggs,  carefully  laid  on  wool,  in  a 
basket.  "You  know,"  she  continued,  "that  our 
ducks  are  a  rare  breed.  They  were  sent  to  me 
by  my  cousin  from  the  seashore.  I  have  but  the 
one  pair  ;  and  the  duck  is  just,  as  you  know,  going 
to  set  upon  ten  eggs.  I  have  taken  four  of  them 
out  for  you,  Willie." 

"  Oh !  oh  !  Mrs.  Hart,  how  much  I  thank  you. 
I  had  rather  have  these  than  almost  anything  you 
could  have  given  me." 

"  I  thought  they  would  please  you,  Willie,  and  I 
wanted  to  give  you  something  you  would  value ; 
and  now,  if  you  have  good  luck  with  them,  they 
may  be  worth  a  great  deal  to  you,  for  Squire  Clif- 
ford has  offered  me  a  dollar  a  pair  for  ducks  of  this 
breed." 

"  Has  he  1  A  dollar  a  pair !"  Willie  looked  at 
the  eggs,  and  he  thought  of  something  he  wanted 
B 


14  THE  WIDOW  ELLIS 

very  much  to  buy  for  his  mother,  and  his  thoughts 
jumped  forward  to  the  time  when  the  ducks  would 
be  hatched,  and  sold,  and  a  little  black  silk  shawl 
bought  for  mother  to  wear  to  meeting  in  the  place 
of  that  old  one  she  has  worn  every  Sunday  since 
father  died.  Well,  he  took  his  eggs  home  with  him, 
and  showed  them  to  his  mother,  and  she  was  full 
as  pleased  as  he  was  when  she  heard  that  they 
were  given  to  him  as  the  reward  of  his  good  beha- 
viour ;  and  Willie  said,  "  Mother,  you  never  saw 
such  handsome  ducks  ;  when  they  turn  their  necks 
to  the  sun  they  look  as  if  .they  were  made  of  pre- 
cious stones." 

"  They  will  look  more  beautiful  than  precious 
stones  to  me,  Willie,  for  they  will  put  me  in  mind 
of  my  little  son's  good  conduct,  and  what  are  pre- 
cious stones  to  a  mother  compared  with  that? 
They  have  come  just  in  time  ;  the  old  white  hen 
is  just  going  to  set.  You  must  take  away  her  own 
eggs,  and  put  these  under  her.  Hens  are  like  the 
very  best  of  stepmothers  ;  they  are  just  as  kind  to 
others'  offspring  as  to  their  own." 

Willie,  like  other  little  boys,  was  impatient  for 
he  time  to  arrive  when  the  ducks  should  come 
forth  from  their  shells  ;  but,  cautioned  by  his  mother, 
he  did  not  worry  the  hen  with  going  to  the  nest. 
He  only  took  care  she  should  find  food  and  water 
at  hand  when  she  came  off  the  nest  in  search  of 
it.  At  the  end  of  four  weeks  the  faithful  step- 
mother came  forth  with  four  ducklings,  each  egg 
having  produced  a  healthy  living  bird.  I  cannot  de- 
scribe Willie's  joy.  A  proud  and  happy  boy  he  was 
that  day.  Gladly  did  he  go  a  mile,  morning  and 
night,  with  Mrs.  Gray's  cow  to  pasture,  to  earn 


AND  HER  SON  WILLIE.  15 

money  to  buy  food  for  his  little  pets.  They  were, 
like  all  ducklings,  very  greedy,  and  led  their  mother 
about  from  morning  till  night  scratching  for  food 
for  them  ;  but  the  little  vagabonds,  above  all  things, 
delighted  in  going  to  the  river  and  running  into  it, 
while  the  poor  mother  would  stand  fluttering  by, 
calling  them  in  vain  to  come  back.  Willie  would 
clap  his  hands,  and  call  the  hen  an  old  goose, 
and  wonder  that,  when  she  had  seen  them  time 
after  time  return  in  safety,  she  could  be  so  fright- 
ened. And  then  Willie  remembered  he  had  read 
in  a  book  that  animals  could  not  reason  ;  that  their 
minds  were  made  of  instincts  ;  and  that  they  obeyed 
this  instinct  better  than  man  obeyed  his  reason. 

There  is  no  having  possessions  in  this  world 
without  trials  coming  along  with  them.  So  Willie 
found  ;  for  his  young  family,  on  passing  Captain 
Stout's  garden  on  their  way  to  the  river,  would 
sometimes  run  under  the  fence,  and  had  once  or 
twice  been  seen  by  the  captain  himself  ononis 
premises. 

Once,  finding  them  helping  themselves  to  a  few 
of  his  peas,  he  flew  into  a  passion  ;  and,  calling  to 
Willie,  who  was  passing  by,  he  told  him  if  he  did 
not  keep  his  ducks  out  of  his  garden  he  would 
Avring  their  necks  for  them  !  The  bare  thought  of 
such  a  catastrophe  made  Willie  tremble  ;  and  that 
very  hour,  with  the  help  of  a  kind  friend,  he  made 
a  coop  for  his  hen,  and  shut  her  up.  Willie,  now 
seeing  the  ducklings  persecuted,  loved  them  better 
than  ever.  His  leisure  moments  were  spent  with 
them.  He  watched  their  different  dispositions, 
and  named  them  accordingly  ;  and  one  cross  one, 
who  was  for  getting  all  the  food  to  himself,  and 


16  THE  WIDOW  ELLIS 

pecking  at  the  others,  he  named  "  Captain  Stout" 
Every  day  they  grew  larger  and  handsomer;  and 
Willie  thought  their  colours  were  even  brighter 
than  their  parents'  at  Mrs.  Hart's.  His  favour- 
ite among  them,  by-the-way,  he  had  named  Mrs. 
Hart,  and  the  most  generous  of  little  ducks  she 
seemed,  always  sharing  her  portion,  or  giving  it 
all  up  rather  than  quarrel  for  it.  After  a  few  days, 
Willie  took  it  into  his  head  that  the  young  things 
were  getting  poor,  and  pining  to  go  to  the  river ;  and 
he  let  the  hen  out,  taking  care  to  attend  them,  lest 
they  should  trespass  on  the  captain.  One  day,, 
as  he  was  returning  from  watering  his  ducks,  his 
mother  called  him  to  go  in  haste  of  an  errand.  He 
left  the  ducks  on  their  way  home.  When  he  was 
returning  he  saw  Captain  Stout,  with  a  club  in 
his  hand,  running  through  his  garden.  Willie's 
heart  misgave  him.  "  Oh,  my  poor  little  ducks  !" 
thought  he,  and  he  hastened  forward.  Bob  Smith 
and^Jam  Briggs,  two  of  his  best  friends,  called 
after  him  that  they  had  something  to  tell  him,  but 
he  did  not  even  turn  his  head  ;  and  they,  wondering 
what  could  be  the  matter,  followed  after  him. 
Willie  reached  the  garden-fence  just  in  time  to 
see  the  old  hen  fly  over  it,  calling,  in  her  own 
way,  with  all  her  might  and  main,  to  the  young 
ones  to  follow.  But  they,  poor  things,  could  not 
fly  so  high ;  and  in  attempting  to  run  under  the 
fence,  they  were  entangled  in  some  currant-bushes 
that  grew  very  thickly  there  ;  and  before  they  could 
extricate  themselves,  before  Willie  could  get  his 
breath  to  plead  for  them,  the  captain  caught  one 
after  the  other,  and,  wringing  their  necks,  tossed 
them  gasping  over  the  fence ;  and  then,  merely  say- 


AND  HER   SON  WILLlfc.  17 

ing  "  I  gave  you  warning,"  he  turned  and  walked 
back  to  his  house.  Willie  said  not  one  word.  It 
seemed  to  him  as  if  he  should  choke.  He  took  up 
his  darlings  one  after  the  other,  and  put  them  in 
his  apron  ;  they  were  warm,  and  their  little  breasts 
yet  heaving,  and  Willie  ran  towards  his  home. 
He  did  not  stop  to  hear  Sam  and  Bob,  who,  en- 
raged at  the  captain's  cruelty,  called  him  all  sorts 
of  names.  "  I'd  kill  him  !"  says  Sam.  "  I'd  burn 
down  his  house  for  him!"  said  Bob.  Not  one 
word  said  poor  Willie  ;  but  his  cheeks  looked  as  if 
the  blood  would  burst  from  them,  and  he  bit  his  lips 
till  they  bled;  and  so  he  appeared  before  his  moth- 
er, and,  dropping  his  apron,  the  dead  ducks  fell  at 
her  feet,  and  he  burst  into  loud  cries,  "Captain 
Stout  has  killed  them  all — he  is  a  cruel  wretch, 
mother — he  is  !  I  wish  he  was  dead !  I  do  wish 
he  was  dead !" 
"  Willie !" 

"  I  can't  help  it,  mother ;  I  do  wish  so  ;  he  is  an 
awful,  hateful  man !  he  might  have  left  me  one — 
just  one,"  and  then,  throwing  himself  down  on  the 
floor,  he  took  one  after  the  other,  stroked  down 
their  feathers,  held  up  their  poor  broken  necks,  and 
burst  out  into  a  fresh  peal  of  crying.  As  soon  as 
she  could  sooth  him  into  a  little  composure,  his 
mothejr  inquired  into  all  the  particulars,  and  she 
too  shed  some  tears,  for  it  grieved  her  to  see  Willie 
grieve ;  and  she  certainly  did  think  he  had  been  most 
unjustly  as  well  as  unkindly  treated.  "  It  is  a  pity  I" 
she  said,  stroking  Willie's  head  with  one  hand  and 
laying  her  other  hand  on  the  favourite  duck,  poor 
little  Mrs.  Hart,  whom  Willie  was  holding  fast  to. 
his  bosom.  Willie  felt  a  little  comforted  when  he 
B2 


18  THE  WIDOW  ELLIS 

saw  that  his  mother  felt  with  him,  and  he  stopped 
his  loud  crying,  but  his  tears  still  came  as  fast  as 
he  could  wipe  them.  "If  he  had  only  killed  the 
captain,"  he  said,  "I  would  not  have  minded  it; 
but  Big-breast,  and  Fanny,  and  dear,  dear  little 
Mrs.  Hart !  I  am  sure  he  ought  to  be  hung ;  and 
I  wish  he  was." 

«  Willie !" 

"  Well,  mother,  was  not  it  just  like  murder  ?" 

"No,  my  son,  not  nearly  so  bad  as  murder." 

"  I'm  sure  I  think  it  was  ;  they  did  not  mean  to 
do  him  any  harm,  and  they  were  the  prettiest  little 
ducks  that  ever  lived,  and  the  best,  especially  Mrs. 
Hart.  I  think  it  was  just  as  bad  as  Herod  killing 
the  innocents.  They  were  just  as  good,  and  ten 
times  handsomer  than  any  babies  that  ever  lived. 
Can't  Captain  Stout  be  punished  any  way,  mother?' 

"  I  believe  not,  Willie." 

"  I  am  sure^ie  ought  to  be.  Mrs.  Hart  told  me 
my  ducks  would  be  worth  a  dollar  a  pair,  and  I 
meant  to  have  sold  one  pair  of  them — oh  dear," 
and  Willie  thought  of  the  silk  shawl  he  meant  to 
have  bought  for  his  mother,  and  he  burst  into  a 
fresh  flood  of  tears,  and  said  he  should  hate  Cap- 
tain Stout  as  long  as  he  lived. 

"  Willie,"  said  his  mother,  "  let  us  go  and  bury 
the  poor  little  ducks  under  the  pear-tree,  and  when 
they  are  out  of  your  sight  you  will  feel  better." 
Willie  did  not  think  he  ever  should  feel  better ;  but 
he  began  to  busy  himself  about  nailing  up  a  box  to 
put  the  ducks  in,  and  digging  a  grave,  and  his 
mother  helped  him,  and  they  covered  the  grave 
with  green  sods,  and  Willie's  mother  took  up  some 
violets   and   set  round   the  sods,  and  Willie  did 


AND  HER  SON  WILLIE.  19 

feel  a  little  better.  When  they  went  back  to  the 
house  his  mother  asked  him  which  he  had  rather, 
be,  the  man  that  killed  the  little  ducks,  or  the  little 
boy  whose  ducks  were  killed. 

*  I  had  rather  be  myself,  a  million  times,  moth- 
er." 

*  Then  the  person  that  suffers  wrong,  my  son, 
is  much  better  oif  than  he  that  does  it." 

"  Yes,  mother,  I  suppose  so,  but  it's  dreadful  to 
bear." 

"Then  should  not  you  be  sorry  for  Captain 
Stout?" 

"  Sorry  for  him  !    I  can't  feel  so,  if  I  ought  to." 

"  Perhaps  you  will,  Willie,  when  you  think  a 
little  more  about  it.  Captain  Stout  was  angry 
when  he  killed  your  little  ducks,  and  the  moment 
the  deed  was  done  he  felt,  I  am  sure  he  did,  that 
he  had  done  as  one  neighbour  should  not  do  to 
another,  as  an  old  man  should  not  do  to  a  little  boy ; 
and,  whenever  he  sees  you  or  thinks  of  you,  he 
will  feel  uncomfortable." 

"  I  hope  he  will !  I  hope  he  will  feel  awfully." 

"  Don't  say  so,  my  son,  or,  rather,  don't  feel  so. 
Do  you  remember  those  texts  you  wrote  off  into 
the  first  leaf  of  your  Bible-book  ?" 

"  Yes,  mother." 

"  What  were  they  V 

"  Love  your  enemies,  bless  those  that  curse  you, 
pray  for  those  that  despitefully  use  you,  overcome 
evil  with  good,  and  so  on." 

"  What  did  you  copy  them  off  for  V 

"  So  that  I  might  remember  them." 

"  Why  do  you  wish  to  remember  them  V 


20  THE  WIDOW  ELLIS 

"  You  told  me  I  must,  mother,  so  as  to  act  ac- 
cordingly, if  ever  I  had  a  chance." 

'*  Have  not  you  a  chance  now,  Willie  V 

Willie  did  not  reply,  and  his  mother  went  on. 
*'  We  never  should  lose  the  opportunity  of  obeying 
these  laws  which  Christ  has  given  us.  You  have 
now  a  great  occasion.  This  is  a  great  trial  to  you; 
and,  if  you  can  earnestly  and  sincerely  pray  God  to 
bless  Captain  Stout,  this  trial,  that  seems  so  griev- 
ous to  you,  will  prove  a  blessing  ;  and,  after  you 
have  so  prayed,  you  will  feel  better,  and  you  will 
be  prepared  to  rejurn  good  for  Captain  Stout's  evil, 
if  ever  you  have  a  chance.  But  don't  pray  for 
him  because  I  have  told  you  this,  Willie ;  for  it 
is  not  saying  the  words  God  cares  for,  but  he 
looks  into  your  heart  to  see  whether  the  feeling  is 
there." 

William  considered  for  some  time  in  silence, 
and  at  last  he  said,  "  I  hope  I  shall  pray  for  Cap- 
tain Stout,  but  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could  now." 
When  a  child  hopes  he  shall  do  right,  he  has  taken 
the  first  step  towards  it.  Willie  was  very  much 
in  the  habit  of  doing  what  he  thought  was  his  duty, 
and  all  day  he  was  thinking  over  his  troubles ;  he 
often  repeated  to  himself  those  texts  he  had  copied, 
and  he  ended  with,  "  I  hope  I  shall  feel  like  pray- 
ing for  him."  At  night,  as  usual,  he  knelt  down 
by  the  bedside.  His  mother  saw  he  remained  on 
his  knees  longer  than  usual,  and,  when  he  crept 
into  bed,  "  Come  here,  mother,"  he  said.  She  went 
to  the  bedside.  "  Oh,  mother,"  said  he,  "  it  is  just 
as  you  always  tell  me.  I  feel  a  great  deal  better 
for  doing  right.  It  seems  as  if  a  load  was  taken 
off  from  me ;  and  now  I  really  don't  want  Captain 


AND  HER  SON  WILLIE.  '         21 

Stout  to  be  punished,  and  I  do  feel  almost  sorry  for 
him,  for  I  know  he  must  feel  awfully  when  he  thinks 
of  the  little  ducks.  I  was  not  sure  even  when  I 
knelt  down  that  I  could  sincerely  and  earnestly  pray 
for  him ;  but,  when  I  was  saying  that  part  of  my 
prayer,  '  forgive  us  our  trespasses  as  we  forgive 
those  that  trespass  against  us,'  I  seemed,  for  the 
first  time,  to  feel  what  it  was  to  b*e  forgiven,  and 
that  we  could  not  be  if  we  did  not  forgive,  and 
how  much  God  every  day  forgave  me  ;  and  I  re- 
membered what  a  dreadful  passion  1  was  in  to-day, 
and  it  seemed  to  me  a  very  little  thing,  when'  God 
is  all  the  time  forgiving  me,  to  forgive  Captain 
Stout  just  for  one  bad  thing;  and,  as  soon  as  I  had 
done  praying  for  myself,  I  did  pray  for  him — real 
prayer,  mother — and  now  I  don't  hate  him  a  bit,  nor 
wish  anything  bad  to  happen  to  him." 

"  My  dear  son,  I  am  glad  and  thankful,  and  I 
hope  you  will  always  look  to  your  heart;  for,  when 
that  is  right,  all  goes  well,  let  others  do  us  good  or 
evil.  If  we  only  obey  the  Divine  laws  which  Je- 
sus Christ  has  given  to  us,  we  shall,  in  all  proba 
bility,  overcome  the  evil  of  others  with  our  good  ; 
and,  if  not,  we  shall  certainly  build  up  the  kingdom 
of  heaven  in  our  own  hearts." 

Not  many  days  after  the  affair  of  the  ducks, 
Mrs.  Ellis  asked  Willie  to  take  his  basket  full  of 
salt  to  the  pasture,  to  salt  the  cow.;  and,  "maybe," 
she  said,  "  Willie,  you  will  find  a  little  calf  beside 
her."  Willie  went  off  eagerly,  running  and  whis- 
tling. The  cow,  I  believe,  he  loved  better  than 
anything  in  the  world  but  his  mother.  He  had 
taken  care,  and  good  care,  of  her  for  two  years, 
driven  her  to  pasture  morning  and  night,  in  sum- 


22  •  THE  WIDOW  ELLIS 

mer  and  in  winter,  foddered  her,  and  carried  her 
out  her  little  mess  of  boiled  potatoes  and  carrots, 
and  such  messes  as  his  careful  mother  could  save 
in  her  small  and  frugal  family.  The  cow  was  a 
gentle  creature,  and  kind-tempered ;  there  .  is  as 
much  difference  in  the  disposition  of  cows  as  ol 
children ;  and  besides,  the  cow  was  the  best  prop- 
erty the  Widow  Ellis  owned.  Nearly  all  the  money 
she  got  was  from  the  sale  of  the  butter  and  milk 
of  this  good  cow,  and  Willie  often  heard  her  say, 
when  any  new  thing  was  bought,  "  we  must  thank 
the  cow  for  this,  Willie."  On  Willie  went,  think- 
ing how  pleasant  it  would  be  to  have  a  calf  with 
the  cow,  and  how  much  pleasure  the  cow  would  take 
with  it,  for  cows  are  fond  mothers.  As  soon  an  he 
got  over  the  bars  into  the  pasture  he  saw  the  cow, 
but  she  seemed  to  be  lying  very  stupidly  ;  he  saw, 
too,  the  little  calf,  walking  feebly  and  slowly  about 
the  mother,  and  making  a  low  sound.  He  ran  for- 
ward, calling  "  co,  co ;"  but  the  cow  did  not,  as  usual, 
obey  the  call,  and  Willie's  heart  sank  within  him. 
He  ran  on,  and,  when  he  came  to  the  poor  animal,  he 
found  her  stretched  on  the  grass,  quite  dead.  Poor 
boy !  you  would  have  pitied  him  if  you  had  seen 
how  sorrowful  he  was ;  how  he  sat  down  by  the 
cow,  and  thought  of  his  mother,  and  burst  into  tears, 
and  said,  "  Now  all  is  gone — my  pretty  ducks  and 
mother's  cow  ! — what  shall  we  do  ?  Poor  Mooly ! 
I  never  shall  drive  you  home  any  more !  I  never 
again  shall  keep  my  fingers  warm  holding  on  to 
your  nice  warm  tail !  I  never  shall  feed  you  again ! 
you  never  again  will  look  round  at  me  and  lick 
my  hand !  oh  dear  !  I  must  go  home  and  tell 
mother— that  is  the  worst  of  it.     What  shall  we 


AND  HER  SON  WILLIE.  23* 

do  with  the  poor  calf?  we've  no  milk  to  give  her;" 
and,  thus  pondering,  Willie  went  slowly  home- 
ward. As  he  came  to  the  turn  in  the  road  by  Cap- 
tain Stout's  field  of  winter  wheat,  he  saw  that  sev- 
eral young  cattle  had  broken  into  the  field,  and  were 
making  their  way  rapidly  towards  the  wheat.  Cap- 
tain Stout's  beautiful  wheat,  the  most  promising  in 
the  county,  and  already  put  up  by  the  captain  for 
the  prize  to  be  given  by  the  agricultural  society 
for  the  best  winter  wheat. 

Willie  looked  at  the  cattle.  He  saw  they  were 
about  to  do  great  injury  to  Captain  Stout.  And  do 
you  think  there  was  a  voice  at  the  very  bottom  of 
his  heart,  saying,  "  Well,  let  them  ;  it's  just  good 
enough  for  him !"  No,  Willie  had  for  ever  silenced 
such  a  voice  when  he  made  that  real  prayer  for 
Captain  Stout.  Willie  was  a  quick-witted  boy.  He 
thought,  if  he  ran  after  the  cattle,  they  would  tram- 
ple down  the  wheat  in  spite  of  all  he  could  do  ; 
then  it  occurred  to  him  to  lure  them  back  with  the 
basket  of  salt ;  so  he  let  down  the  bars  they  had 
leaped  over,  and,  going  gently  towards  them,  he 
called  to  them  and  showed  them  the  salt.  They 
came  towards  him.  Just  at  that  moment  Sam 
Briggs,  his  friend,  who  had  witnessed  the  wringing 
of  the  ducks'  necks,  appeared  in  sight.  "What 
are  you  about,  Will  ?"  he  cried  out. 

"  Getting  these  steers  out  of  the  captain's  wheat- 
field." 

"  The  more  fool  you !  don't  you  remember  the 
ducks  ?" 

"  I  guess  I  never  shall  forget  them." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  let  the  cattle  be  ?  I  am 
sure  it's  none  of  your  business  to  get  them  out. 


24  THE  WIDOW  EXLIS 

If,  I  was  in  your  place  I  would  like  no  better  fun 
thjan  to  see  the  captain's  wheat  trod  down,  every 
blade  of  it-;  I  would  not  budge  an  inch  to  drive 
them  out." 

"  But,  then,  I  should  lose  the  opportunity,  Sam," 
replied  Willie ;  who,  all  the  time  his  friend  was 
speaking,  was  luring  the  cattle  towards  the  bars, 
and  now,  having  got  them  on  the  oukside,  was  put- 
ting them  up,  while  they  were  licking  up  the  salt 
he  had  strewed  around. 

"  '  Lose  the  opportunity !'  Will — what  do  you 
mean  ?" 

"  Mother  says — I  mean  the  Bible  says  you 
should  -take  the  first  opportunity  to  return  good  for 
evil,  and  then  you  will  overcome  other  people's 
evil  with  your  good." 

"  That's  sound  doctrine,  I  declare  !"  said  Sam's 
father,  who  at  this  moment  joined  them.  "  You 
are  a  good  boy,  Willie,  and  I  wish  Sam  would  take 
pattern  by  you — Sam  and  all  the  other  boys ;-  as 
to  that,  there's  many  a  man  might  be  the  better  for 
such  an  example.  A  pretty  spot  of  work,  Mr. 
Sam,  I  should  have  had  if  Willie  had  gone  accord- 
ing to  your  advice ;  I  suppose  you  did  not  see 
they  are  our  cattle,  and  I  should  have  had  the 
damages  to  pay.  But  how  in  the  world,  Will,  did 
you  contrive  to  get  them  out  so  nicely!"  Willie 
explained,  and  this  led  to  telling  the  news  of  the 
cow's  death. 

lt\  I  declare  !"  said  Mr.  Briggs,  "  I  am  sorry  for 
your  loss,  Willie,  and  your  mother's.  One  good 
turn  deserves  another.  Our  old  dun  has  lost  her 
calf ;  so  you  drive  yours  up  to  my  little  pasture, 
and  she  may  run  with  her  ;  she'll  have  plenty  of 


AND  HER   SON  WILLIE.  25 

milk,  and  be  worth  raising  by  the  time  she  is  six 
weeks  old." 

"  Oh,  thank  you — thank  you,  sir,"  said  William  ; 
and,  his  heart  lightened  of  half  its  load,  he  ran 
home  to  tell  all  his  news,  bad  and  good,  to  his 
mother. 

William  was  scarcely  out  of  sight  before  Cap- 
tain Stout  came  down  to  look  at  his  darling  tvheat- 
field ;  and  when  he  saw  the  prints  of  the  cattle's 
hoofs,  he  sputtered  away  as  he  always  did  when 
in  a  passion.  It  was  some  time  before  he  could 
listen  to  Mr.  Briggs's  account  of  how  skilfully  they 
had  been  driven  out  by'William  Ellis. 

"  William  Ellis  !  William  Ellis  !"  exclaimed  the 
old  man. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Sam  Briggs  ;  "maybe  you  know 
something  about  William  Ellis's  ducks,  if  you  don't 
know  William  Ellis.  I  know  some  boys  that,  in 
"Willie's  place,  would  have  turned  the  cattle  in  in- 
stead of  out  /" 

"  You  are  a  sarcy  boy  !"  said  the  captain,  turning 
on  his  heel  and  walking  briskly  away.  Though 
he  said  this,  I  rather  think  that,  on  reflection,  he 
was  much  of  Sam's  opinion. 

Willie  found  his  mother  submitted  to  the  calam- 
ity of  losing  the  cow  with  that  gentleness  and  pa- 
tience with  which  she  took  all  the  inevitable  evils, 
small  and  great,  of  her  lot.  This  was  a  better  les- 
son to  her  child  than  if  she  had  talked  to  him  a 
month  about  the  duty  of  submission. 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  an't  sorrier,  mother,"  said 
William ;  "  I  was  afraid  you  would  feel  dread- 
fully." 

"  I  am  sorry,  Willie — very  sorry — it  is  a  great 
C 


26  THE  WIDOW  ELLIS 

loss  to  us,  but  'tis  not  that  distressing  kind  of  sor- 
row I  should  feel  if  you  had  been  doing  wrong ; 
nor  that  heart-sickness  I  should  have  felt  if  any- 
thing evil  had  happened  to  you,  my  dear  boy." 

"  Instead  of  that,  something  good  has  happened 
to  me,  mother."  William  then  told  his  mother  how 
lucky  he  had  been  in  seeing  the  cattle  just  in  the 
nick  of  time.  "  Sam  says,"  concluded  Willie, 
"  that  captain  will  never  so  much  as  thank  me  ;  but 
I  don't  care  for  that,  for  it's  just  as  you  say,  mo- 
ther ;  it  makes  you  feel  somehow  so  happy  to  feel 
you  have  done  right  because  it  was  right,  not  be- 
cause you  want  anybody  to  pay  you,  or  thank  you, 
or  praise  you  for  it." 

"  That  happy  feeling,  my  dear  child,  is  God's 
reward,  and  it  is  not  like  men's  pay,  and  thanks, 
and  praise  ;  they  may  fail  us,  but  this  happy  feel- 
ing we  are  sure  of  when  conscience  tells  us  we 
have  done  right ;  and  it  is  quite  reward  enough  for 
our  best  actions." 

"  So  I  know  it  is,  mother." 

Not  long  after  this  Mrs.  Ellis  asked  William  to 
go  to  the  fulling-mill  to  get  their  cloth.  This  was 
a  piece  of  cloth  for  a  cloak  for  Mrs.  Ellis,  and  a 
new  suit  of  clothes  for  William.  Mrs.  Ellis  had 
spun  the  yarn,  died  it,  and  woven  it  herself.  No 
one  can  feel  the  worth  of  a  garment  as  the  diligent 
woman  does  who  has  manufactured  it  herself;  I 
believe  it  gives  her  ten  times  the  pleasure  a  fine 
lady  gets  from  a  new  dress  from  Paris  ;  so,  though 
its  cost  is  far  less,  the  poor  woman  is  the  richer  of 
the  two.  Willie  fancied  he  knew  the  value  of  the 
homemade  cloth,  "  You  and  I,  mother,"  he  sai^, 
"  I  guess,  will  know  how  to  prize  our  new  things. 


AND  HER  SON  WILLLE.  27 

I  shall  think  how  many  clothes  you  washed  for 
Miss  Seaman  to  buy  the  wool,  and  then  how  we 
picked  it  by  the  light  of  the  pine  knots,  then  how 
you  carded  it  nights  when  you  were  teaching  me 
hymns,  and  so  on,  and  so  on,  and  so  on.  Oh,  it 
seemed  to  me  as  if  everything  never  would  be 
done  to  it;  but,  as  you  say,  mother,  brick  upon 
brick  builds  the  house  at  last."  Off  Willie  set  at 
a  quick  pace,  for  he  had  a  long  way  to  go,  and  he 
knew  it  would  be  night  before  he  could  get  home. 
He  had  to  wait  a  long  time,  and,  when  he  got 
the  cloth,  a  stout  roll  it  was,  he  trudged  home- 
ward with  it  a  happy  boy.  Before  he  got  to  Cap- 
tain Stout's  the  clouds  gathered  and  shut  in  the 
stars,  and  the  wind  rose  and  roared,  and  the  naked 
trees  cracked  in  the  blast,  but  Willie  feared  no- 
thing. What  should  he  have  feared  ?  he  saw  the 
candle  shining  through  his  mother's  window ;  a 
pleasant  light  is  that  which  comes  from  a  kind 
mother's  home.  But  what  bright  light  is  that  flash- 
ing through  Captain  Stout's  stable-door?  That 
stable-door  opened  towards  the  street,  the  barn- 
yard gate  opened  upon  the  street,  and  Willie  was 
just  passing  it.  The  stable  was  at  one  end  of  the 
barn,  and  the  barn  was  connected  with  the  house 
by  a  shed  and  woodhouse.  Willie  screamed  with 
all  his  might,  "  fire !  fire  !"  and  ran  towards  the 
barn.  The  stable-door  was  ajar.  Luckily,  Captain 
Stout  had  sent  away  one  pair  of  horses  that  day 
with  a  load,  so  that  two  of  the  stalls  were  empty, 
and  the  manger  where  the  fire  had  taken  had  but  a 
whiff  of  hay  in  it,  but  that  would  soon  have  com- 
municated with  the  full  manger  where  the  horses 


28  THE  WIDOW  ELLIS 

were.  They  were  already  terrified  with  the  sud- 
den light,  and  pulling  back  and  kicking  furiously. 

Willie  entered  the  stable,  and  shut  the  door  after 
him ;  he  then  unrolled  his  cloth  and  threw  it  down 
upon  the  manger.  The  flames  had  not  yet  reached 
the  hay  at  the  horses'  heads,  nor  blazed  up  to 
the  loft  above.  As  well  as  he  could,  he  pressed 
down  the  cloth ;  but,  in  spite  of  him,  the  flames 
would  flash  out,  first  at  one  end,  then  at  the  other. 
His  cries,  however,  had  alarmed  Captain  Stout 
and  his  family,  and  they  were  soon  on  the  spot 
with  pails  of  water.  The  fire  was  quickly  extin- 
guished, but  fire  and  water  had  ruined  poor  Wil- 
lie's new  cloth.  Captain  Stout  bade  him  come 
into  the  house,  and  inquiries  and  explanations  fol- 
lowed. It  seemed  that  Nat  Boyle,  a  careless  little 
fellow  who  lived  with  the  captain,  remembered 
after  dark  that,  instead  of  hanging  up  the  bridle  as 
he  had  been  told  always  to  do  when  he  put  up  a 
horse,  he  had  left  it  on  the  stable-floor ;  and  so, 
taking  a  candle  without  a  lantern  (which  he  had 
been  bidden  never  to  do),  he  crept  out  to  hang  up 
the  bridle,  and  thus  save  himself  from  the  scolding, 
or,  perchance,  whipping  he  might  breakfast  on  next 
morning.  He  could  not  reach  the  nail  to  hang  the 
bridle  on  without  setting  down  the  candle,  and  he 
set  it  in  the  manger  "just  for  a  quarter  of  a  sec- 
ond," he  said ;  "  he  had  no  thought  it  could  do  any 
harm."  Oh  this  no  thought,  how  many  buildings 
it  burns ! 

"  And  how  came  you,  Willie  Ellis,  to  be  out  at 
this  time  of  night  ?"  asked  Captain  Stout. 

Willie  told  his  errand,  and  said  the  clothier  had 
detained  him.     "  Lucky  for  me  he  did,"  said  the 


AND  HER  SON  WILLIE.  29 

captain  ;  "  but  now  tell  me,  how  upon  aarth  such  a 
shaver  as  you  knew  how  to  go  the  right  way  to 
work  to  put  out  the  fire  V 

M  I  can  tell  you  that,  sir,"  replied  Willie,  smi- 
ling ;  the  first  time  he  had  smiled  since  he  saw 
the  scorched  ruined  cloth ;  "  you  know,  sir,  there 
is  only  mother  and  I ;  and,  when  I  was  a  little  boy, 
she  had  sometimes  to  leave  me  alone  in  the  house, 
and  she  was  dreadfully  afraid  of  fire,  so  she  often 
told  me  how  to  manage  in  case  anything  took  fire. 
She  bade  me  not  open  a  door,  for  that  would  make 
a  draught,  and,  if  possible,  I  was  to  throw  some 
woollen  thing  on  the  fire*  If  my  clothes  caught, 
she  bade  me  throw  myself  flat  on  the  floor  and 
wrap  myself  in  the  hearth-rug  ;  and  she  has  often 
taken  a  cotton-rag,  and  showed  me  how  much 
quicker  it  burnt  when  you  held  it  up  than  when 
you  laid  it  down." 

"  Well,  well,  your  mother  is  a  'raculous  woman, 
and  you  are  a  'raculous  child  to  remember  all  this 
in  time  of  need.  I  might  have  told  Nat  forty  mil- 
lion of  times,  and  he  never  would  have  thought  of 
it.  Stop  your  bellowing,  you  son  of  Belial,  it  will 
do  you  no  good.  I  will  give  you  such  a  thrashing 
to-morrow  morning  as  you  never  had,  and  turn  you 
out  on  the  wide  world  to  burn  other  folks'  barns, 
you  careless  rascal !  I  say,  Will  Ellis,  you  are  a 
boy  worth  having,  and  I  have  thought  so  ever  since 
you  turned  them  steers  out  of  my  field.  Gome  in 
here,  Will."  William  followed  to  an  inner  room. 
"  I  an't  always  so  crossgrained  as  I  seem,"  con- 
tinued the  captain  ;  "  you've  made  me  kind  o'  feel, 
William  Ellis,  you've  made  me  respect  you,  and 
that  is  more  than  ever  I  could  say  of  any  other  boy 
C2 


30  THE  WIDOW  ELLIS 

in  the  univarse,  for  I  never  could  surmise  what 
boys  were  made  for  ;  but  I  do  respect  you,  and 
your  mother  too  ;  here,  take  this  cloth  home,"  and 
he  gave  him  a  roll  larger  and  better  than  his  own, 
"  and  tell  your  mother  I  shall  be  down  by  sunrise 
to  see  her  ;  good-night,  my  boy."  William  thanked 
Captain  Stout,  but  the  captain  fancied  he  did  not 
look  quite  satisfied  ;  and  he  said,  "  Don't  think,  Will, 
this  is  all  I  mean  to  do  for  you ;  I  believe  in  my 
conscience  you  have  saved  barn,  house,  and  all,  for 
all  would  soon  have  gone  this  gusty  night,  and  I  tell 
you  I'll  reward  you ;  I  don't  do  my  jobs,  good  or 
bad,  by  halves,  as  you  knew  once  to  your  cost  and 
mine  too,  for  I've  wished  the  plaguy  little  ducks 
alive  a  hundred  times  since  ;  but  what  is  the  mat- 
ter, boy  ?  speak  out." 

"  I  don't  wish  any  more  reward,  sir,"  said  Wil- 
lie ;  "  but  there  is  one  thing,  Captain  Stout,  if  you 
would  only  please  to  do — "  Willie  paused  and 
hesitated. 

"What  do  you  boggle  about,  boy?  don't  he 
afeard." 

Thus  encouraged,  Willie  ventured  to  say,  "  I 
wish,  sir,  when  you  say  your  prayers  to-night,  you 
would  pray  God  to  forgive  Nat's  carelessness,  and 
then  you  would  feel  like  forgiving  him  yourself,  and 
returning  '  good  for  his  evil.'  " 

Captain  Stout  walked  twice  across  the  room,  and 
then,  suddenly  stopping,  he  said,  "Did  you  pray 
for  me,  Willie  Ellis,  when  I  wrung  your  ducks' 
necks  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"Did  you?  You  are  a  'raculous  boy!"  The 
tears  rolled  down  Captain  Stout's  cheeks,  and,  for 


AND  HER  SON  WILLIE.  31 

the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  did  that  night,  before 
he  went  to  bed,  pray  for  one  who  had  offended  and 
injured  him. 

The  next  morning,  bright  and  early,  Mrs.  Ellis 
heard  footsteps  ;  and,  looking  out,  she  saw  coming 
towards  her  door  the  captain,  attended  by  Nat, 
who  was  driving  before  him  one  of  the  captain's 
best  cows.  "  The  captain  seems,"  thought  she, 
"  to  be  walking  and  talking  with  Nat  in  a  friendly 
way  ;  if  the  captain  has  taken  the  right  turn,  I  shall 
be  glad  for  the  poor  boy." 

The  poor  boy,  Nat  Boyle,  who  thus  excited  the 
commiseration  of  the  kind  widow's  heart,  was  the 
son  of  a  miserable  vagrant  woman  who,  five  years 
before,  had  died  in  passing  through  our  village,  and 
left  this  boy  to  the  charities  of  the  public.  He  had 
been  a  neglected,  untaught  child,  but  he  was  hon- 
est and  good-tempered,  and  Captain  Stout  had  ta- 
ken him  a  few  months  before  from  the  poorhouse 
on  trial.  "  Good-morning  to  you,  widow,"  said  the 
captain,  in  a  pleasanter  voice  than  Mrs.  Ellis  had 
ever  heard  from  him  before ;  "  Nat  Boyle  has  driven 
down  a  cow  for  you,  widow,  as  something  towards 
settling  accounts  with  your  boy."  Mrs.  Ellis  be- 
gan to  express  her  thanks.  "  Hush  up,  widow," 
said  the  captain,  interrupting  her,  "  it's  only  a  debt 
I  am  paying,  and  that  don't  require  thanks ;"  and 
then,  after  relating  over  and  over  again  every  par- 
ticular of  the  fire,  he  said,  "  You  have  reason  to 
be  proud  of  your  boy,  widow,  and  thankful  too — 
and,  as  to  that,  so  has  Nat  Boyle,  for  he  has  saved 
him  from  worse  than  a  thrashing,  and  I  am  bound 
to  him  far  more  than  any  of  you ;  for,  old  as  I  am, 
I  have  learned  the  best  lesson  from  that  young  babe, 


32  THE  WIDOW  ELLIS 

as  it  were,  that  ever  I  learned  in  my  life.  He  has 
learned  me  to  return  good  for  evil.  So,  after  taking 
Will's  advice,  I  don't  feel  like  turning  off  this  des- 
olate boy ;  and,  if  you'll  spare  me  your  son,  I  think, 
with  my  teaching  and  his  sort  of  examples,  we  may 
make  something  of  Nat  Boyle  yet." 

Captain  Stout  then  proposed  that  William  should 
live  with  him.  He  offered  many  privileges,  but  that 
which  William  valued  above  every  other  was  the 
promise  that  he  should  sleep  at  his  mother's.  Mrs. 
Ellis  gladly  accepted  the  captain's  offer.  She 
knew  William  would  be  thoroughly  taught  farming 
at  Captain  Stout's.  She  was  not  one  of  those  who 
expect  their  children  will  be  taught  morals  and  man- 
ners away  from  home  ;  this  she  knew  was  home- 
work. Neither  did  she  expect  the  captain's  pres- 
ent happy  state  of  mind  would  be  invariable.,  She 
knew  that  a  temper  in  which  a  man  has  stiffened 
for  years  cannot  be  changed  by  a  single  impulse, 
but  she  relied  on  William  to  bear  and  forbear  with 
the  captain's  infirmities.  Good  Mrs.  Ellis  had 
found  out,  from  her  own  observation,  the  truth  ex- 
pressed by  a  great  moral  writer,  that  "  the  nearer 
we  approach  perfection,  the  easier  do  we  bear  with 
the  imperfections  of  others." 

The  captain  concluded  with  reiterating  the  praises 
of  William.  Mrs.  Ellis  listened  with  tears,  and,  in 
reply  \o  the  old  man's  repeated  asseveration  that 
Will  "  was  a  'raculous  boy,"  she  meekly  replied, 
"  I  have  long  thought,  captain,  if  people  would  but 
practise  the  laws  of  Christ,  they  would  make  a 
change  in  this  world  that  would  seem  miracu- 
lous." 

We  assure  those  of  our  young  friends  who  are 


AND  HER    SON    WILLIE  33. 

anxious  to  know  how  Willie  Ellis  fared  at  Captain 
Stout's,  that  the  old  man's  temper 'did  soften  by  de- 
grees under  the  constant  influence  of  his  fidelity 
and  gentleness.  The  soft  south  wind  will  melt  the 
hardest  ice.  We  advise  any  who  may  have  crusty 
tempers  to  deal  with  to  imitate  Willie  Ellis. 


THE  MAGIC   LAMP. 


il  Pray  tell  us  a  story,  aunt,"  said  half  a  dozen 
young  voices  at  once  ;  "  it's  Sunday  evening,  and 
you  know  you  always  tell  us  a  story  Sunday  even- 
ing." 

"  Well,  if  I  must  I  must — what  shall  it  be  about  °" 

"Oh,  anything  !  only  let  it  end  good,"  cried  one. 
"  No,  no.  I  say  let  it  end  horribly,"  exclaimed  an- 
other, "  like  your  martyr  stories.  I  like  stories  where 
all  the  people  are  killed,  some  way  or  other." 

"Well,  I  don't  love  to  have  people  killed,"  said 
tender-hearted  little  Haddy.  'I  wish  you  would 
tell  us  a  fairy  story ;  but  I  suppose  you  won't  Sun- 
day night." 

"  No,  Haddy,  but  I  will  tell  you  something  like 
a  fairy  story — a  story  about  a  magic  lamp." 

"  Oh !  Aladdin's  lamp  I  suppose  you  mean." 

"  No.  My  lamp  belonged  to  a  Christian  country, 
and  was  more  useful,  though  not  quite  so  entertain- 
ing, as  Aladdin's,  I  am  afraid."  The  children, 
however,  were  satisfied,  and,  gathering  about  their 
aunt,  she  began.  "  There  was  once  a  mother,  a 
very  young  mother  she  was.  She  had  in  her 
childhood,  like  you,  Haddy,  loved  fairy  stories,  and 
her  mind  was  full  of  them  ;  and  as  she  sat  looking 
at  her  infant  daughter  on  her  lap, '  Oh,'  she  thought, 
'  how  I  should  like  to  have  lived  in  those  times 
when  kind  fairies  were  present  at  the  birth  of  a 


THE    MAGIC    LAMP.  35 

child,  and  each  gave  it  some  good  gift ;  but  you, 
my  poor  little  girl,  must  plod  on  in  the  common 
way,  and  work,  mind  and  hands,  for  everything 
you  get.'  As  she  paused  she  heard  a  sound  as  of 
some  one  approaching.  She  saw  no  one,  but 
presently  a  voice  whispered  in  her  ear,  '  Do  not  be 
startled,  I  am  Nature,  your  mother,  and  your  child's 
— the  mother  of  all.  To  all  my  children  I  give 
good  gifts.  Some  bury  them ;  some  neglect  them  ; 
some  cast  them  away ;  some  never  find  out  that 
they  possess  them ;  and  some,  my  faithful  children, 
make  the  most  of  them.  To  your  child  I  have 
given  a  most  precious  gift.  It  is  an  invisible  lamp ; 
you  will  only  perceive  it  by  its  effects.  If  she  is 
faithful  in  keeping  it  trimmed  and  burning,  I  will 
supply  it  with  oil.' 

" '  Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you,'  said  the  surprised 
and  happy  mother ;  '  but  pray  tell  me  how,  if  she 
does  not  see  it,  can  she  trim  the  lamp  ?  How  can 
she  carry  it  unseen  about  her?  May  it  not  burn 
her1?'  and  many  other  questions  she  put  which 
Dame  Nature,  no  doubt,  thought  quite  idle ;  for, 
without  answering  one  of  them,  she  merely  said, 
1  Give  yourself  no  concern  about  these  matters  ;  ex- 
perience will  give  your  child  all  necessary  instruc- 
tions about  the  management  of  the  lamp.  If  she 
fulfil  her  duty,  be  sure  the  oil  shall  not  fail.  If  the 
lamp  is  kept  in  order,  it  will  diffuse  a  light  that 
every  one  loves  ;  the  old  and  the  young,  the  happy 
and  the  miserable,  the  sick  and  the  well,  the  rich 
and  the  poor,  all  will  crave  your  daughter's  pres- 
ence. Be  content,  ask  no  more,  but  observe  and 
learn.' 

"  The  voice  was  silent,  and  the  mother  saw,  what 


36  THE    MAGIC    LAMP. 

she  wondered  she  had  not  before  noticed,  a  pecu- 
liar and  beautiful  light  playing  about  her  child's 
countenance.  It  seemed  to  issue  from  her  soft 
bright  eyes,  and  to  beam  from  the  smile  into  which 
her  pretty  lips  were  for  ever  curling.  '  This  is  in- 
deed Nature's  gift !'  thought  she  ;  '  how  poor  are 
the  imitations  of  art !'  She  named  the  little  girl 
Serena ;  and  feeling  that  a  child  endowed  with  so 
precious  a  gift  should  have  rare  care,  she  did  all 
a  mother  could  do  to  make  her  good  ;  she  brought 
her  up  in  the  '  nurture  and  admonition  of  the  Lord. 
As  Serena  grew,  the  light  of  her  lamp  waxed  strong- 
er and  stronger.  One  of  its  marvellous  properties 
was,  that,  if  not  quite  so  powerful,  its  light  was 
more  observed  and  more  beautiful  when  any  mis- 
fortune befell  its  owner.  Experience  gave  the 
promised  instruction.  The  arts  of  preserving  it 
were  curious  enough.  Constant  occupation,  activ- 
ity of  body  and  mind,  strict  attention  to  the  laws 
of  health,  especially  eating  moderately  and  drink- 
ing only  pure  wafer,  were  most  conducive  to  its 
clear  burning.  Serena  soon  learned  that  it  was 
miserably  dimmed  by  disobedience  to  her  mother, 
by  hurting  the  feelings  of  a  friend,  or  by  any  wrong 
doing  whatever.  These  were  the  lessons  that  she 
learned  from  that  sternest  and  best  of  teachers,  ex- 
perience ;  and  most  attentive  was  she  in  applying 
her  knowledge  to  the  management  of  the  lamp,  and 
well  was  she  rewarded  for  her  fidelity.  The  effect 
of  the  lamp  seemed,  indeed,  like  magic  ;  she  could 
learn  a  lesson  in  half  the  time  by  it  that  others  could 
without  it.  By  the  light  of  her  lamp  she  performed 
all  her  tasks  as  if  they  were  pleasures,  while  others 
were  grumbling  and  crying.  She  was  better  sat- 
isfied with  an  old  dress  by  this  precious  light  than 


THE    MAGIC    LAMP.  37 

other  girls  with  the  newest  and  prettiest  without  it. 
One  might  have  fancied  the  colour  of  everything 
in  life  depended  on  the  light  that  fell  on  it.  Se- 
rena would  sit  out  an  evening  with  an  old  grand- 
aunt,  deaf,  and  almost  blind,  she  and  the  old  lady 
as  happy  as  happy  could  he  by  the  light  of  the 
lamp,  though  Serena  knew  her  companions  were 
amusing  themselves  with  dancing  and  all  manner 
of  gayety  at  the  next  house.  She  has  stayed  many 
a  day,  and  day  after  day,  in  this  same  aunt's  sick- 
room, and  the  old  lady  said,  with  grateful  tears  in 
her  eyes,  '  While  Serena's  light  falls  on  my  pillow 
my  drinks  refresh  me,  my  food  nourishes  me,  and 
even  my  medicines  taste  less  nauseous." 

"  At  school  every  one  liked  to  get  near  her.  If 
the  girls  were  puzzled  by  a  sum,  or  boggled  in  a 
composition,  or  baffled  by  a  difficult  piece  of  music, 
they  would  run  to  Serena,  and  they  were  sure,  by 
the  light  of  her  lamp,  to  be  able  to  overcome  the 
difficulty.  Even  the  domestics  in  her  mother's 
service  found  their  work  lighter  when  Serena  was 
present.  Indeed,  it  was  at  home  that  the  lamp 
was  brighest  and  most  beautiful. 

"As  Serena  grew  up  and  took  her  part  in  the 
pleasures  and  business  of  the  world,  the  light  of 
her  lamp  was,  of  course,  more  diffused.  It  was 
visible  in  the  midday  sun,  and  in  the  darkest  night 
how  far  it  sent  its  beams  !  It  added  a  charm  to  the 
most  brilliant  apartment ;  and,  when  Serena  visited 
the  humble  dwellings  of  the  poor  and  afflicted,  it 
shone  on  their  walls,  played  like  sunshine  over 
the  faces  of  the  children,  and  sent  a  ray  of  pleas- 
ure to  the  saddest,  darkest  heart. 

"  Serena  had  just  entered  her  nineteenth  year 


38  THE    MAGIC    LAMP. 

when  she  lost  her  mother ;  the  dear  parent  who 
had  supplied  the  place  of  father,  brother,  sister, 
and  friend  to  her.  In  the  bitterness  of  her  grief 
Serena  quite  forgot  her  lamp.  At  her  mother's 
grave  it  went  out. 

"  What  a  change  was  there  now  in  her  condition  ! 
She  was  alone  in  the  home  that  had  been  so  pleas- 
ant to  her.  The  charm  of  her  lamp  was  gone. 
She  was  so  enveloped  in  gloom  and  darkness  that 
none  came  near  her  but  such  as  were  moved  by 
heavenly  compassion.  If  she  forced  herself  out, 
and  those  that  loved  her  tenderly  approached  her, 
they  gave  her  little  pleasure,  for  she  felt  that,  without 
her  lamp,  she  gave  them  none.  Strangers  turned  in- 
voluntarily from  her  ;  and  children  who  had  always 
nocked  around  her  ran  away  at  the  first  glimpse  of 
her  slow  moving  form  and  sad  countenance.  She 
lost  all  interest  in  life,  and  sat,  with  her  hands 
folded,  the  picture  of  indolent  grief.  If  her  friends 
sympathized  with  her  upon  the  loss  of  her  lamp, 
she  said  she  cared  not,  for  that  it  was  fitting  it 
should  go  out  for  ever  at  her  mother's  grave. 

"  One  day,  when  she  was  sitting  alone,  she  took 
up  her  Bible  ;  and,  as  she  turned  from  place  to  place, 
many  a  sentence  sunk  deep  into  her  heart.  She 
felt  that  she  had  been  unsubmissive  to  the  will  of 
God,  and  that  she  was  sinning  against  him  in  giv- 
ing herself  up  to  despair  and  uselessness. 

"  She  now  wished  again  for  her  lamp,  that  she 
might  go  about  doing  good ;  and  as  she  meditated 
with  deep  contrition  and  anxiety  she  heard  a  voice, 
saying,  "  Serena,  I  pity  thee.  Thou  hast,  by  thy 
want  of  faith  and  resignation  to  the  will  of  God, 
lost  the  precious  gift  that  Nature  gave  thee.  Na- 
ture has  not  the  power  to  relight  thy  lamp.     I  have 


THE    MAGIC    LAMP.  39 

My  name  is  Religion.  Stu/Iy  that  book  on  which 
thy  hand  resteth ;  obey  its  laws,  and  I  will  surely 
relight  thy  lamp;  and  in  proportion  to  thy  obedience 
will  it  become  brighter  and  brighter,  till  it  burns 
among  those  lights  where  '  there  is  no  night,  and 
where  they  need  no  candle,  neither  light  of  the  sun, 
for  the  Lord  giveth  them  light.' 

"  Serena  meekly  bowed  herhead,  and,  with  per- 
fect faith  in  the  promises  of  religion,  resolved  to 
obey  her  voice.  She  went  forth  to  perform  her  neg- 
lected duties,  and  at  once  a  feeble  light  from  her 
rekindled  lamp  stole  over  her.  All  who  knew  her 
now  hailed  with  joy  her  approach.  All  observed 
that  the  lamp  burnt  brighter,  and  with  a  steadier 
light,  than  when  the  oil  was  supplied  by  Nature. 
In  due  time  she  married  ;  she  had  children.  Mani- 
fold afflictions  came  upon  her — who  escapes  them? 
Her  husband  lost  his  property.  She  buried  two 
children  in  one  grave.  She  became  a  widow. 
Still  her  lamp  went  not  out.  Religion  kept  the 
promise  she  makes  to  all  who  trust  in  her,  '  I  will 
never  leave  thee,  nor  forsake  thee.' 

"  Old  age  came  at  last,  and  then,  when  Serena's 
eyes  were  dimmed  and  her  limbs  feeble,  so  that 
she  could  no  more  walk  abroad,  how  precious  was 
the  light  of  her  lamp  !  Wherever  she  was,  there 
her  friends  desired  to  be.  Children,  too,  delighted 
to  gather  about  her,  and  said  they  should  love  to 
be  old,  if  they  could  have  such  a  light  as  hers  to 
enlighten  them  ;  and,  finally,  she  sank  to  rest,  bless- 
ing and  blessed." 


"  Pray  tell  us,  aunt,"  asked  one  of  the  girls, "  what 
kind  of  oil  was  that  in  the  Magic  Lamp  ?" 
"  The  oil  of  cheerfulness*  my  dear  Grace," 


OUR    ROBINS. 


At  a  short  distance  from  the  village  of  S 

on  the  top  of  a  hill,  and  somewhat  retired  and  shel- 
tered from  the  roadside,  lives  a  farmer  by  the  name 
of  Lyman.  He  is  an  industrious,  intelligent,  and 
honest  man;  and  though  he- has  but  a  small  farm, 
and  that  lying  on  bleak  stony  hills,  he  has,  by  dint 
of  working  hard,  applying  his  mind  to  his  labour, 
and  living  frugally,  met  many  losses  and  crosses 
without  being  cast  down  by  them,  and  has  always 
had  a  comfortable  home  for  his  children ;  and  how 
comfortable  is  the  home  of  even  the  humblest  New- 
England  farmer  !  with  plenty  to  satisfy  the  physical 
wants  of  man,  with  plenty  to  give  to  the  few  wan- 
dering poor,- and  plenty  wherewith  to  welcome  to  his 
board  the  friend  that  comes  to  his  gate.  And,  add- 
ed to  this,  he  has  books  to  read,  a  weekly  newspa- 
per, a  school  for  his  children,  a  church  in  which 
to  worship,  and  kind  neighbours  to  take  part  in  his 
joy  and  gather  about  him  in  time  of  trouble.  Such 
a  man  is  sheltered  from  many  of  the  wants  and 
discontents  of  those  that  are  richer  than  he,  and 
secured  from  the  wants  and  temptations-  of  those 
that  are  poorer. 

Late  last  winter  Mr.  Lyman's  daughter,  Mrs. 
Bradly,  returned  from  Ohio,  a  widow  with  three 


OUR    ROBINS.  41 

children.  Mrs.  Bradly  and  I  were  old  friends. 
When  we  were  young  girls  we  went  to  the  same 
district  school,  and  we  had  always  loved  and  re- 
spected one  another.  Neither  she  nor  I  thought 
it  any  reason  why  we  should  not,  that  she  lived 
on  a  little  farm,  and  in  an  old  small  house,  and  I 
in  one  of  the  best  in  the  village ;  nor  that  she 
dressed  in  very  common  clothes,  and  that  mine, 
being  purchased  in  the  city,  were  a  little  better  and 
smarter  than  any  bought  in  the  country.  It  was 
not  the  bonnets  and  gowns  we  cared  for,  but  the 
heads  and  hearts  those  bonnets  and  gowns  covered. 
The  very  morning  after  Mrs.  Bradly's  arrival  in 

S her  eldest  son,  Lyman,  a  boy  ten  years  old, 

came  to  ask  me  to  go  and  see  his  mother.     "  Moth- 
er," he  said,  "  was  not  very  well,  and  wanted  very 

much  to  see  Miss  S ."     So  I  went  home  with 

him.  After  walking  half  a  mile  along  the  road,  I 
proposed  getting  over  the  fence  and  going,  as  we 
say  in  the  country,  "  'cross  lots."  So  we  got  into 
the  field,  and  pursued  Our  way  along  the  little  noisy 
brook  that,  cutting  Lyman's  farm  in  two,  winds  its 
way  down  the  hill,  sometimes  taking  a  jump  of  five 
or  six  feet,  then  murmuring  over  the  stones,  or  play- 
ing round  the  bare  roots  of  the  old  trees,  as  a  child 
fondles  about  its  parent,  and  finally  steals  off  among 
the  flowers  it  nourishes,  the  brilliant  cardinals  and 
snow-white  clematis,  till  it  mingles  with  the  river 
that  winds  through  our  meadows.  I  would  advise 
my  young  friends  to  choose  the  fields  for  their 
walks.  Nature  has  always  something  in  store  for 
those  who  love  her  and  seek  her  favours/  You 
will  be  sure  to  see  more  birds  in  the  green  fields 
than  on  the  roadside.  Secure  from  the  boys  who 
D2 


42  OUR   ROBINS. 

may  be  idling  along  the  road,  ready  to  let  fly 
stones  at  them,  they  rest  longer  on  the  perch  and 
feel  more  at  home  there.  Then,  as  Lyman  and  I 
did,  you  will  find  many  a  familiar  flower  that,  in 
these  by-places,  will  look  to  you  like  the  face  of 
a  friend ;  and  you  may  chance  to  make  a  new  ac- 
quaintance, and  in  that  case  you  will  take  pleasure 
in  picking  it  and  carrying  it  home,  and  learning  its 
name  of  some  one  wiser  than  you  are.  Most 
persons  are  curious  to  know  the  names  of  men  and 
women  whom  they  never  saw  before,  and  never 
may  see  again.  This  is  idle  curiosity ;  but  often, 
in  learning  the  common  name  of  a  flower  or  plant, 
we  learn  something  of  its  character  or  use  ;  "  bit- 
ter-sweet," *'  devil's  cream-pitcher,"  or  "  fever- 
bush,"  for  example. 

4'  Yqu  like  flowers,  Lyman,"  I  said  as  he  scram- 
bled up  a  rock  to  reach  some  pink  columbines  that 
grew  from  its  crevices. 

"  Oh,  yes,  indeed  I  do  like  them,"  he  said ;  "  but 
I  am  getting  these  for  mother ;  she.  loves  flowers 
above  all  things— all  such  sorts  of  things,"  he  add- 
ed, with  a  smile. 

"  I  remember  very  well,"  said  I,  "  your  mother 
loved  them  when  she  was  a  little  girl,  and  she  and 
I  once  attended  together  some  lectures  on  botany ; 
that  is,  the  science  that  describes  plants  and  ex- 
plains their  nature."  , 

"  Oh,  I  know,  ma'am,"  said  he,  "  mother  remem- 
bers all  about  it,  and  she  has  taught  me  a  great 
deal  she  learned  then.  When  we  lived  out  in  Ohio, 
I  used  to  find  her  a  great  many  flowers  she  never 
saw  before ;  but  she  could  class  them ;  she  said, 
though,  they  seemed  like  strangers,  and  she  loved 


OUR    ROBINS.  43 

best  the  little  flowers  she  had  known  at  home,  and 
those  we  used  to  plant  about  the  door,  and  mother 
said  she  took  comfort  in  them  in  the  darkest 
times." 

Dark  times  I  knew  my  poor  friend  had  had — 
much  sickness,  many  deaths,  many,  many  sorrows 
in  her  family ;  ^and  I  was  thankful  that  she  had 
continued  to  enjoy  such  a  pleasure  as  flowers  are 
to  those  that  love  them. 

As  we  approached  Mrs.  Lyman's,  I  looked  for  my 
friend,  expecting  she  would  come  out  to  meet  me, 
but  I  found  she  was  not  able  to  do  so ;  and,  when  I 
saw  her,  I  was  struck  with  the  thought  that  she 
would  never  living  leave  the  house  again.  She 
was  at  first  overcome  at  meeting  me,  but,  after  a 
few  moments,  she  wiped  away  her  tears  and  talked 
cheerfully.  "  I  hoped,"  she  said,  "  my  journey 
would  have  done  me  good,  but  I  think  it  has  been 
too  much  for  me  ;  I  have  so  longed  to  get  back  to 
father's  house,  and  to  look  over  these  hills  .once 
more  ;  and  though  I  am  weak  and  sick,  words  can't 
tell  how  contented  I  feel ;  I  sit  in  this  chair  and 
look  out  of  this  window,  and  feel  as  a  hungry  man 
sitting  down  to  a  full  table.  Look  there,"  she 
continued,  pointing  to  a  cherry-tree  before  the 
window,  "  do  you  see  that  robin  ?  ever  since  I  can 
remember,  every  year  a  robin  has  had  a  nest  in 
that  tree.  I  used  to  write  to  father  and  inquire 
about  it  when  I  was  gone  ;  and  when  he  wrote  to 
me,  in  the  season  of  bird-nesting,  he  always  said 
something  about  the  robins ;  so  that  this  morning, 
when  I  heard  the  robin's  note,  it  seemed  to  me  like 
the  voice  of  one  of  the  family." 


44  OUR    ROBINS. 

'*  Have  you  taught  your  children,  Mary,"  I  asked, 
"  to  love  birds  as  well  as  flowers  ?" 

"  I  believe  it  is  natural  to  them,"  she  replied  ; 
"  but  I  suppose  they  take  more  notice  of  them 
from  seeing  how  much  I  love  them.  I  have  not 
had  much  to  give  my  children,  for  we  have  had 
great  disappointments  in  the  new  countries,  and 
have  been  what  are  called  very  poor  folks  ;  so  I 
have  been  more  anxious  to  give  them  what  little" 
knowledge  I  had,  and  to  make  them  feel  that  God 
lias  given  them  a  portion  in  the  birds  and  the  flow- 
ers, his  good  and  beautiful  creation." 

"  Mother  always  says,"  said  Lyman ;  and  there, 
seeming  to  remember  that  I  was  a  stranger,  he  stop- 
ped.    "  What  does  mother  always  say  ?"  I  asked. 

"  She  says  we  can  enjoy  looking  out  upon 
beautiful  prospects,  and  smelling  the  flowers,  and 
hearing  the  birds  sing,  just  as  much  as  if  we  could 
say  '  they  are  mine  V " 

"  Well,  is  it  not  just  so  ?"  said  Mrs.  Lyman  ;  "  has 
not  our  Father  in  heaven  given  his  children  a  share 
in  all  his  works  1  I  often  think,  when  I  look  out 
upon  the  beautiful  sky,  the  clear  moon,  the  stars, 
the  sunset  clouds,  the  dawning  day  ;  when  I  smell 
the  fresh  woods  and  the  perfumed  air;  when  I 
hear  the  birds  sing,  and  my  heart  is  glad,  I  think, 
after  all,  that  there  is  not  so  much  difference  in  the 
possessions  of  the  rich  and  poor  as  some  think; 
'  God  giveth  to  us  all  liberally,  and  withholdeth 
not.'" 

"  Ah !"  thought  I,  "  the  Bible  says  truly,  '  as  a 
man  thinketh,  so  is  he.'  Here  is  my  friend,  a  wid- 
ow and  poor,  and  with  a  sickness  that  she  well 
knows  must  end  in  death,  and  yet,  instead  of  sorrow- 


OUR    ROBINS.  45 

ing  and  complaining,  she  is  cheerful  and  enjoying 
those  pleasures  that  all  may  enjoy  if  they  will ;  for 
the  kingdom  of  nature  abounds  with  them.  Mrs. 
Bradly  was  a  disciple  of  Christ ;  this  was  the 
foundation  of  her  peace ;  but,  alas,  all  the  disci- 
ples of  Christ  do  not  cultivate  her  wise,  cheerful, 
and  grateful  spirit." 

I  began  with  the  story  of  the  robin-family  on  the 
cherry-tree,  and  I  must  adhere  to  that.  I  went 
often  to  see  my  friend,  and  I  usually  found  her  in 
her  favourite  seat  by  the  window.  There  she  de- 
lighted to  watch,  with  her  children,  the  progress  of 
the  little  lady-bird  that  was  preparing  for  her  young. 
She  collected  her  materials  for  building,  straw  by 
straw  and  feather  by  feather ;  for,  as  I  suppose 
all  little  people  know,  birds  line  their  nests  with 
some  soft  material,  feathers,  wool,  shreds,  or  some- 
thing of  the  sort  that  will  feel  smooth  and  comfort- 
able to  the  little  unfledged  birds.  Strange,  is  it 
not,  that  a  bird  should  know  how  to  build  its  nest 
and  prepare  for  housekeeping  !  How,  think  you, 
did  it  learn  ?  who  teaches  it  ?  Some  birds  work 
quicker  and  more  skilfully  than  others.  A  friend 
of  mine  who  used  to  rear  canaries  in  cages,  and 
who  observed  their  ways  accurately,  told  me  there 
was  as  much  difference  between  them  as  between 
housewives.  Some  are  neat  and  quick,  and  oth- 
ers slatternly  and  slow.  Those  who  have  not-  ob- 
served much  are  apt  to  fancy  that  all  birds  of  one 
kind,  for  instance,  that  all  hens  are  just  alike  ;  but 
each,  like  each  child  in  a  family,  has  a  character 
of  its  own.  One  will  be  a  quiet,  patient  little  body, 
always  giving  up  to  its  companions  ;  and  another 
for  ever  fretting,  fluttering,  and  pecking.     I  know 


46  OUR    ROBINS. 

a  little  girl  who  names  the  fowls  in  ner  poultry- 
yard  according  to  their  characters.  A  lordly  fel- 
low who  has  beaten  all  the  other  cocks  in  regular 
battle,  who  cares  for  nobody's  rights,  and  seems 
to  think  that  all  his  companions  were  made  to  be 
subservient  to  him,  she  calls  Napoleon.  A.  pert, 
handsome  little  coxcomb,  who  spends  all  his  time 
in  dressing  his  feathers  and  strutting  about  the 
yard,  is  named  Narcissus,  Bessie  is  a  young  hen, 
who,  though  she  seems  very  well  to  undei stand 
her  own  rights,  is  a  general  favourite  in  the  poultry- 
yard.  Other  lively  young  fowls  are  named  after 
favourite  cousins,  as  Lizzy,  Susy,  &c.  But  the  best 
loved  of  all  is  one  called  "  Mother"  because  she 
never  seems  to  think  of  herself,  but  is  always 
scratching  for  others ;  because,  in  short,  she  is,  in 
this  respect,  like  that  best,  kindest,  and  dearest  of 
parents,  the  mother  of  our  little  mistress  of  the 
poultry-yard. 

To  return  to  the  robin.  She  seemed  to  be  of 
the  quietest  and  gentlest,  minding  her  own  affairs, 
and  never  meddling  with  other  peopled  ;  never 
stopping  to  gossip  with  other  birds,  but  always  in- 
tent on  her  own  work.,  In  a  few  days  the  nest 
was  done*  and  four  eggs  laid  in  it.  The  faithful 
mother  seldom  left  her  nest.  Her  mate,  like  a 
good  husband,  was  almost  always  to  be  seen  near 
her.  Lyman  would  point  him  out  to  me  as  he 
perched  on  a  bough  close  to  his  little  lady,  where 
he  would  sit  and  sing  most  sweetly ;  Lyman  and  I 
used  to  guess  what  his  notes  might  mean.  Lyman 
thought  he  might  be  relating  what  he  saw  when 
he  was  abroad  upon  the  wing,  his  narrow  escapes 
from  the    sportsman's  shot,  and  from  the  stones 


OUR    ROBINS.  47 

which  the  thoughtless  boy  sends,  breaking  a  wing 
or  a  log,  just  to  show  how  he  can  hit.  I  thought 
he  might  be  telling  his  little  wife  how  much  he 
loved  her,  and  what  good  times  they  would  have 
when  their  children  came  forth  from  the  shells.  It 
was  all  guesswork,  but  we  could  only  guess  about 
such  matters,  and  I  believe  there  is  more  thought 
in  all  the  animal  creation  than  we-  dream  of. 

Once,  when  he  had'  been  talking  in  this  playful 
way,  Lyman's  mother  said,  "  God  has  ever  set  the 
solitary  birds  in  families.  They  are  just  like  you, 
children ;  better  off  and  happier  for  having  some  one 
to  watch  over  them  and  provide  for  them.  Some- 
times they  lose  both  their  parents,  and  then  the 
poor  little  birds  must  perish ;  but  it  is  not  so  with 
children ;  there  are  always  some  to  take  pity  on 
orphan  children,  and,  besides,  they  can  make  up, 
by  their  love  to  one  another,  for  the  love  they  have 
lost." 

I  saw  Lyman  understood  his  mother;  his  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  and,  putting  his  face  close  to  hers, 
he  said,  "  Oh  no,  mother !  they  never  can  make  it 
up  ;  it  may  help  them  to  bear  it." 

When  the  young  birds  came  out  of  their  shells 
it  was  our  pleasure  to  watch  the  parents .  feeding 
them.  Sometimes  the  father-bird  would  bring  food 
in  his  bill,  and  the  mother  would  receive  it  and  give 
it  to  her  young.  She  seemed  to  think,  like  a  good, 
energetic  mother,  that  she  ought  not  to  sit  idle  and 
let  her  husband  do  all  the  providing,  and  she  would 
go  forth  and  bring  food  for  the  young  ones,  and 
then  a  pretty  sight  it  was  to  see  them  stretch  up 
their  litte  necks  to  receive  it. 

Our  eyes  were  one  day  fixed  on  the  little  fam- 


48  OUR    ROBINS. 

ily.  Both  parents  were  perched  on  the  tree.  Two 
young  men  from  the  village,  who  had  been  out  spor- 
ting, were  passing  along  the  road.  "  I'll  bet  you 
a  dollar,  Tom,"  said  one  of  them,  "  I'll  put  a  shot 
into  that  robin's  head."  "  Done  !"  said  the  other  ; 
and  done  it  was  for  our  poor  little  mother.  Bang 
went  the  gun,  and  down  to  the  ground,  gasping 
and  dying,  fell  the  bird.  My  poor  friend  shut  her 
eyes  and  groaned;  the  children  burst  out  into  cries 
and  lamentations  ;  and,  I  must  confess,  I  shed  some 
tears — I  could  not  help  it.  We  ran  out  and  picked 
up  the  dead  bird,  and  lamented  over  it.  The 
young  man  stopped,  and  said  he  was  very  sorry ; 
that  if  he  had  known  we  cared  about  the  bird  he 
would  not  have  shot  it ;  he  did  not  want  it ;  he 
only  shot  to  try  his  skill.  I  asked  him  if  he  could 
not  as  well  have  tried  his  skill  by  shooting  at  a 
mark.  "  Certainly !"  he  answered,  and  laughed, 
and  walked  on.  Now  I  do*  not  think  this  young 
man  was  a  monster,  or  any  such  thing,  but  I  do 
think  that,  if  he  had  known  as  much  of  the  habits 
and  history  of  birds  as  Lyman  did,  he  would  not 
have  shot  this  robin  at  the  season  when  it  is  known 
they  are  employed  in  rearing  their  young,  and  are 
enjoying  a  happiness  so  like  what  human  beings 
feel ;  nor,  if  he  had  looked  upon  a  bird  as  a  mem- 
ber of  God's  great  family,  would  he  have  shot  it,  at' 
any  season,  just  to  show  his  skill  in  hitting  a  mark. 
We  have  no  right  to  abate  innocent  enjoyment  nor 
inflict  unnecessary  and  useless  pain.* 

*  Lord  Byron  somewhere  says,  that  he  was  so  much  moved 
by  seeing  the  change  from  life  to  death  in  a  bird  he  had  shot, 
that  he  could  never  shoot  another.  I  may  lay  myself  open  to 
the  inculcation  of  a  mawkish  and  unnecessary  tenderness,  but  I 


OUR    RSBINS.  49 

The  father-bird,  in  his  first  fright,  darted  away, 
but  he  soon  returned  and  flew  round  and  round  the 
tree,  uttering  cries  which  we  understood  as  if  they 
had  been  words ;  and  then  he  would  flutter  over 
the  nest,  and  the  little  motherless  birds  stretched 
up  their  necks  and  answered  with  feeble,  mourn- 
ful sounds.  It  was  not  long  that  he  stayed  vainly 
lamenting.  The  wisdom  God  had  given  him  taught 
him  that  he  must  not  stand  still  and  suffer,  for 
there  is  always  something  to  do;  a  lesson  that 
some  human  beings  are  slow  to  learn.  So  off  he 
flew  in  search  of  food ;  and  from  that  moment,  as 
Lyman  told  me,  he  was  father  and  mother  to  the 
little  ones ;  he  not  only  fed  them,  but  brooded  over 
them  just  as  the  mother  had  done  ;  a  busy,  busy 
life  he  had  of  it.  "  Is  it  not  strange,"  said  Lyman 
to  me,  "  that  any  one  can  begrudge  a  bird  their 
small  portion  of  food  ?  They  are  all  summer  singing 
for  us,  and  I  am  sure  it  is  little  to  pay  them  to  give 
them  what  they  want  to  eat.  I  believe,  as  mother 
says,  God  has  provided  for  them  as  well  as  for  us, 
and  mother  says  she  often  thinks  they  discern  it 
better,  for  they  do  just  what  God  means  them  to 
do."  It  was  easy  to  see  that  Lyman  had  been 
taught  to  consider  the  birds,  and  therefore  he  loved 
them. 

Our  attention  was,  for  some  days,  taken  off  the 
birds.  The  very  night  after  the  robin's  death  my 
friend,  in  a  fit  of  coughing,  burst  a  bloodvessel. 
Lyman  came  for  me  early  the  next  morning.  She 
died  before  evening.  I  shall  not  now  describe  the 
sorrow  and  the  loss  of  the  poor  children.     If  any 

believe  a  respect  to  the  rights  and  happiness  of  the  defenceless 
always  does  a  good  work  upon  the  heart. 

E 


50  OUR   ROBINS. 

one  who  reads  this  has  lost  a  good  mother,  he  will 
know,  better  than  I  can  tell,  what  a  grief  it  is ;  and, 
if  his  mother  be  still  living,  I  pray  him  to  be  faith- 
ful, as  Lyman  was,  so  that  he  may  feel  as  Lyman 
did  when  he  said,  "Oh,  I. could  not  bear  it  if  I 
had  not  done  all  I  could  for  mother !" 

The  day  after  the  funeral  I  went  to  see  the  chil- 
dren. As  I  was  crossing  the  field  and  walking  be- 
side the  little  brook  I  have  mentioned,  I  saw  Sam 
Sibley  loitering  along.  Sam  is  an  idle  boy,-  and, 
like  all  idle  boys  I  ever  knew,  mischievous.  Sam 
was  not  liked  in  the  village  ;  and,  if  you  will  ob- 
serve, you  will  see  that  those  children  who  are  in 
the  habit  of  pulling  off  flies'  wings,  throwing  stones 
at  birds,  beating  dogs,  and  kicking  horses,  are 
never  loved ;  such  children  cannot  be,  for  those 
that  are  cruel  to  animals  will  not  care  for  the  feel- 
ings of  their  companions. 

At  a  short  distance  from  the  brook  there  was  a 
rocky  mound,  and  shrubbery  growing  around  it, 
and  an  old  oak-tree  in  front  of  it.  The  upper  limbs 
of  the  oak  were  quite  dead.  Sam  had  his  hand 
full  of  pebbles,  and,  as  he  loitered  along,  he  threw 
them  in  every  direction  at  the  birds  that  lighted  on 
the  trees  and  fences.  Luckily  for  the  birds,  Sam 
was  a  poor  marksman,  as  he  was  poor  in  every- 
thing else ;  so  they  were  unhurt  till,  at  length,  he 
hit  one  perched  on  the  dead  oak.  As  Sam's  stone 
whistled  through  the  air,  Lyman  started  from  be- 
hind the  rocks,  crying,  "  Oh,  don't — it's  our  robin!* 
He  was  too  late  ;  our  robin  fell  at  his  feet;  he  took 
it  up  and  burst  into  tears.  He  did  not  reproach 
Sam ;  he  was  too  sorry  to  be  angry.  As  I  went 
up  to  him  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  Everything  I 


OUR    ROBINS,  51 

love  dies  !"  I  did  not  reply,  I  could  not.  "  How 
sweetly,"  resumed  Lyman,  "he  sung  only  last 
night  after  we  came  home  from  the  burying-ground, 
and  this  morning  the  first  sound  Mary  and  I  heard 
was  his  note  ;  but  he  will  never  sing  again !" 

Sam  had  come  up  to  us.  I  saw  he  was  ashamed, 
and  I  believe  he  was  sorry  too ;  for,  as  he  turned 
away,  I  heard  him  say  to  himself,  "  By  George  ! 
I'll  never  fling  another  stone  at  a  bird  so  long  as  I 
live." 

It  must  have  done  something  towards  curing  his 
bad  habits  to  see  the  useless  pain  he  had  caused 
to  the  bird  and  the  bird's  friend ;  and  the  lesson 
sank  much  deeper  than  if  Lyman  had  spoken  one 
angry  or  reproachful  word,  for  now  he  felt  really 
sorry  for  Lyman.  One  good  feeling  makes  way 
for  another. 

To  our  great  joy,  the  robin  soon  exhibited  some 
signs  of  animation ;  and,  on  examination,  I  perceived 
he  had  received  no  other  injury  than  the  breaking 
of  a  leg.  A  similar  misfortune  had  once  happen- 
ed to  a  Canary-bird  of  mine,  and  I  had  seen  a  sur- 
geon set  its  leg  ;  so,  in  imitation  of  the  doctor,  I  set 
to  work  and  splinted  it,  and  then  despatched  Ly- 
man for  an  empty  cage  in  our  garret.  We  moved 
the  little  family  from  the  tree  to  the  cage.  The 
father-bird,  even  with  the  young  ones,  felt  strange 
and  unhappy  for  some  time.  It  was  a  very  differ- 
ent thing  living  in  this  pent-up  place  from  enjoy- 
ing the  sweet  liberty  of  hill  and  valley,  and  he  did 
not  know  our  good  reason  for  thus  afflicting  him 
any  better  than  we  sometimes  do  of  our  troubles 
when  we  impatiently  fret  and  grieve.  In  a  short 
time  he  became  more  contented.     The  family  said 


52  OUR   ROBINS 

he  knew  Lyman's  footstep,  and  would  reply  to  his 
whistle  ;  sure  am  I  Lyman  deserved  his  love  and 
gratitude,  for  he  was  the  faithful  minister  of  Provi- 
dence to  the  helpless  little  family.  They  never 
wanted  food  nor  drink.  When,  at  the  end  of  a 
very  few  weeks,  he  found  them  all  able  to  take  care 
of  themselves,  he  opened  the  door  of  the  cage  and 
said,  "Go,  little  birds,  and  be  happy,  for  that  is 
what  God  made  you  for." 

The  birds  could  speak  no  word  of  praise  or 
thanks ;  but  happiest  are  those  who  find  their  best 
reward,  not  in  the  praise  they  receive,  but  the  good 
they  do. 


OLD    ROVER. 


"  A  MERCIFUL  MAN  IS  MERCIFUL  TO  HIS  BEAST  W 

There  were  two  boys  in  the  town  of  B ■ 

who  were  born  on  the  same  day  of  the  same  year. 
They  were  friends,  as  their  fathers  were  before 
them,  though  one  was-  a  rich  lawyer  and  the  other 
a  labouring  man,  who  literally  earned  his  living  by 
the  sweat  of  his  brow.  And  why  should  not  the 
rich  and  the  poor  be  friends?  There  is  in  this 
country  no  frightful  distance*  between  them.  Our 
laws  and  institutions  do  not,  like  the  laws  and  insti- 
tutions of  other  countries,  favour  the  rich  and  great. 
There  the  property  may  be  secured  to  the  son  of 
the  rich  lord,  though  he  be  idle  and  vicious  ;  here 
the  son  of  the  rich  man  must  be  industrious,  pru- 
dent, and  moral,  or  he  falls  down  to  the  lowest 
place  in  society  ;  and  the  son  of  the  labouring  man, 
if  he  be  industrious,  prudent,  and  moral,  may  mount 
up  to  the  highest.  But  there  are  better  reasons 
than  those  that  begin  and  end  in  this  world  why 
the  poor  and  the  rich  should  be  friends — they  are 
brothers ;  all  children  of  one  family.  Some  have 
places  on  earth  that  appear  more,  and  some  less 
favoured  ;  but  of  one  truth  we  may  rest  assured, 
that,  in  the  great  day  of  account,  that  station  will 
E  2 


54  OLD    ROVER. 

prove  to  have  been  the  happiest  of  which  the  du- 
ties have  been  best  performed.  A  man  like  Wash- 
ington, who,  on  earth,  was  "  first  in  war,  first  in 
peace,  and  first  in  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen," 
may,  in  that  great  day,  stand  beside  the  labouring 
man  whose  goodness  was  never  heard  of  beyond 
his  own  neighbourhood,  and  the  poor  woman  whose 
"  patience  in  tribulation"  was  never  known  beyond 
her  own  roof. 

Then,  seeing  that  every  condition  has  its  duties, 
its  respectability,  happiness,  and  trials  ;  that,  in  our 
country,  no  family  is  fenced  into  a  certain  place, 
but  that  the  low  of  one  year  may  be  the  high  of  the 
next,  and  the  high  the  low  ;  that,  at  any  rate,  these 
external  differences  are  soon  over,  and  we  all  stand 
on  even  ground  before  our  Father  and  our  Judge, 
with  no  distinctions  but  those  which  result  from 
obedience  to  his  laws,  let  us  be  sure  of  that  obedi- 
ence by  avoiding  pride,  envy,  and  hostility,  and 
loving  one  another  like  brethren  here. 

I  am  not  sure  that  the  two  friends  I  have  spoken 
of  ever  once  thought  of  loving  one  another  as  a 
matter  of  duty.  If  you  had  asked  them  why,  they 
would  probably  have  answered  that  they  could  not 
help  it.  They  saw  their  fathers  respected  each 
the  other.  Dutcher,  the  working  man,  lived  on 
Mr.  Sedley's  farm,  and  near  his  house.  The  boys 
were  both  pleasant-tempered  and  bright.  They 
went  to  the  same  school,  hunted,  fished,  and  played 
ball  together.  In  winter,  when  Roswell  Dutcher 
had  leisure  to  read,  Stuart  lent  him  his  books  ;  and, 
in  summer,  often  talked  to  him  of  what  he  was 
reading ;  and  Roswell  taught  Stuart  how  to  drive 
horses,  and  harness  them,  how  to  hold  a  plough. 


OLD    ROVER.  55 

how  to  work  in  the  hay,  and  various  rustic  opera- 
tions, which  to  know  practically  makes  a  man  feel 
himself  to  be  more  a  man. 

The  fathers  of  these  boys  lived  through  times  of 
great  trial  for  such  a  friendship  as  theirs,  when 
those  who  love  to  make  enmities,  from  which  pro- 
ceed wars  and  fightings,  were  busy  in  setting  the 
poor  against  the  rich. 

When  the  revolutionary  war  was  finished,  and 
our  independence  was  won  by  those,  of  all  condi- 
tions, who  had  banded  together  as  brothers,  a  heavy 
debt  remained  for  the  country  to  pay.  This  could 
only  be  paid  by  laying  taxes  on  all  classes  ;  and 
these,  of  course,  fell  most  heavily  on  the  poor. 
There  were  persons  foolish  and  ignorant  enough 
to  believe,  or,  perhaps,  only  foolish  and  ignorant 
enough  to  try  to  make  others  believe  that  it  was 
best  to  have  an  end  of  all  law  and  government. 
The  leader  of  these  people  was  one  Shay,  and  from 
him  the  insurrection  which  he  headed  was  called 
Shay's  war.  This  was  a  big  name  for  a  short  and 
nearly  bloodless  contest ;  for,  though  there  were 
several  skirmishes  between  the  government  men 
and  the  Shays'  men,  there  were  but  few  wounded, 
and  not  more  than  two  or  three  killed.  Still,  in 
our  peaceful  country,  the  slightest  alarm  of  war 
strikes  terror,  and  long  were  the  particulars  of  this 
strife  remembered  and  related  by  their  parents  and 
elders  to  the  wondering  children,  to  whom  the  in- 
terest was  much  increased  by  the  scene  lying 
about  their  own  homes.  That  the  followers  of 
Shay  were,  for  the  most  part,  honest,  well-mean- 
ing, and  scrupulous  men,  may  be  inferred  from  the 
very  little  mischief  they  did  •  but  we  know  that, 


56  OLD    ROVER. 

when  there  is  a  rising  against  the  government,  the 
idle  and  discontented,  and  such  as  had  rather  live 
by  pilfering  than  honest  labour,  rally  around  *he 
disaffected. 

I  am  not  about  to  give  the  history  of  this  war, 
so  my  young  readers  must  lay  aside  any  expecta- 
tions I  have  unwarily  excited,  and  listen  to  a  con- 
versation between  the  boys  Roswell  Duteher  and 
Stuart  Sedley,  as  they  were  returning  together 
from  the  district  school,  just  as  the  sun  was  near- 
ing  the  western  hills.  Fine  places  were  district 
schools  in  those  times  to  knit  together  the  hearts 
of  the  children  of  employers  and  employed ;  for 
they  sat  on  the  same  bench,  often  studied  the  same 
books,  played  with  the  same  ball,  and,  perchance, 
were  whipped  with  the  same  whip — so  through 
good  and  evil  they  went  together.    t 

"  Do  see,"  said  Roswell,  "  how  Julius  Smith  is 
laying  the  whip  on  his  oxen,  and  how  he  bawls  to 
them ;  he  is  not  fit  to  speak  to  a  dumb  creature." 

"  All  the  town,"  said  Stuart,  "  can  tell  when  Ju- 
lius Smith  is  driving  his  oxen.  I  wish  he  would 
join  the  Shays'  men." 

"  Father  says  he  has  not  spirit  enough ;  he  is 
always  ready  to  lick  the  feet  of  those  above  him, 
and  abuses  everything  below  him ;  his  wife,  chil- 
dren, and  dumb  creatures — "  Stuart  laughed. 
"  What  are  you  laughing  at,  Stuart  ?" 

"At  your  speaking  as  if  Mrs.  Smith,  who  is 
such  a  nice  woman,  was  not  equal  to  her  paltry 
husband." 

"  You  know  I  didn't  mean  that,  Roswell,  only 
that  Julius  treats  her  so.  I  heard  father  say  the 
other  day  that  your  mean,  low-spirited  people  al 


OLD    ROVER.  57 

ways  treat  their  wives  and  children  as  if  they  were 
beneath  them — there,  Julius  is  laying  it  on  to  his 
oxen  again." 

"  It  seems  to  me,  Roswell,  that  all  the  men  and 
all  the  boys  scream  at  oxen." 

"  I  am  sure  father  and  I  don't,  Stuart." 

"  No,  because  you  and  your  father  are  such  quiet 
people — you  never  scream  at  anything." 

''  Father  says  there  is  no  occasion  for  screaming 
at  oxen ;  he  says  they  are  the  most  docile  as  well 
as  faithful  animals  that  we  have  ;  and  they  know 
a  deal  more  than  people  think  they  do." 

"  I  wish,  Roswell,  we  knew  what  animals  think 
and  feel.  It  seems  to  me,  if  horses  could  speak 
they  would  be  quite  equal  to  us.  In  former  times 
there  were  persons  who  believed  in  the  transmi- 
gration of  souls — that  is,  the  passing  of  souls  from 
one  body  to  another.  Pythagoras,  one  of  the  wise 
men  of  Greece,  called  the  Samian  sage,  because 
he  was  a  native  of  Samos,  taught  this  doctrine. 
He  believed  that,  when  a  man  died,  if  he  was  not 
worthy  to  be  advanced  to  a  higher  state,  his  soul 
was  sent  back  into  one  of  the  inferior  animals." 

"  Well,  that  is  comical  enough.  I  shall  always 
be  thinking  what  kind  of  men  our  horses  and  oxen 
were.  I  guess  Deacon  Bray's  old  Roan  was  one 
of  those  stupid  people  that  never  fail  to  go  to  meet- 
ing, but  that  is  the  end  of  it — they  never  think  of 
what  they  hear  when  they  are  there." 

"  Why  that  bright  guess,  Roswell  f 

"Why,  dont  you  know,  Stuart,  that  since  the 
deacon  has  pretty  much  done  using  old  Roan,  as 
soon  as  he  hears  the  second  bell  ring  he  trots 
down  to  the  meeting-house,  and  stands  by  the  post 


58  OLD    ROVER. 

where  the  deacon  used  to  tie  him ;  and,  when  the 
meeting  is  dismissed,  he  trots  home  again." 

"Does  he?  Poor  old  Roan!  My  father  says  she 
has  been  a  grand  animal  in  her  day ;  and  now  the 
good  deacon  is  as  tender  of  her  as  if  she  were  a 
friend.*  I  thought  of  Deacon  Bray  when  I  was 
reading  in  my  Plutarch  to-day." 

"  Of  Deacon  Bray  !  Why,  Stuart,  Plutarch  tells 
about  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  don't  he  ?" 

"  Yes,  Roswell,  to  be  sure — but  a  good  man  now- 
a-days  does  pretty  much  as  a  good  man  then  did. 
Plutarch  says  a  good  man  will  take  care  of  his 
horse  and  dog  long  after  they  are  past  service. 
The  Athenians,  when  they  had  finished  their  fa- 
mous temple  called  the  Hecatompedon,  set  at  lib- 
erty the  animals  that  had  done  most  service  during 
the  building  ;  and  they  made  a  law  that  they  should 
never  again  be  subjected  to  labour.  One  of  these 
came  afterward,  of  his  own  accord,  and  placed 
himself  at  the  head  of  the  working  cattle.  This 
pleased  the  people,  and  they  ordered  that  he  should 
be  supported  at  the  public  charge  as  long  as  he 
lived.  There  was  a  gentleman  dining  with  us  the 
other  day  who  told  a  marvellous  story  of  one  of 
Washington's  chargers.  If  it  was  exactly  true," 
added  Stuart,  smiling,  "  I  rather  think  old  Pythag- 

*  Deacon  Bray  is  not  the  only  person  on  record  who  cher- 
ished worn-out  horses.  It  is  related  of  the  benevolent  Howard, 
that  he  would  not  permit  his  superannuated  horses  to  be  killed, 
but  maintained  several  generously,  and  cherished  them  affec- 
tionately. 

Sir  Walter  Scott's  love  of  animals  was  a  striking  and  pleas- 
ing feature  in  his  character.  Let  it  never  be  forgotten  that  he 
would  not  permit  his  family  to  use  their  horses  on  Sunday — 
thus  honouring  the  command  to  let  them  rest  on  the  Sabbath 
day. 


OLD    ROVER.  59 

oras  was  right,  and  the  soul  of  some  proud  old 
warrior,  an  Achilles,  maybe,  was  in  this  great 
white  horse.  Washington  rode  him  during  a  great 
part  of  the  war ;  he  was  a  favourite  with  his  mas- 
ter, and  he  has  been  known  to  groom  him  him* 
self.  The  gentleman  who  told  us  the  story  was 
one  of  General  Washington's  aids,  and  he  said  it 
was  quite  a  disgrace  to  any  officer  not  to  know 
how  to  groom  his  horse.  Some  of  the  general's 
attendants  took  a  fancy  to  try  the  white  charger  in 
harness,  and  they  put  him  into  a  sulkey.  He 
seemed  indignant  as  if  he  spurned  the  collar,  and, 
by  one  violent  effort,  freed  himself  completely, 
and  then  stood  perfectly  quiet,  with  the  shattered 
carriage  and  broken  harness  about  him !  This 
may  be  true  or  may  be  not,  but  I  am  sure  of  the 
truth  of  a  far  prettier  story  of  our  Rover.  He  was 
standing  before  the  door,  waiting  for  my  father,  yes- 
terday, our  Charlie  (Charlie  was  Stuart's  brother, 
just  two  years  old)  crept  between  his  hind  legs  ; 
and,  when  my  father  came  out,  he  was  stroking 
them,  and  saying,  '  Poor  Rovy  !  Poor  Rovy  !'  and 
Rovy  stood  as  if  he  were  cut  in  stone,  and  looked 
round  as  quietly  and  lovingly  as  my  father  would. 
You  know  he  is  such  a  fiery  horse  that  nobody 
but  my  father  likes  to  mount  him  ;  and  yet,  my  fa- 
ther says,  if  he  takes  up  Charlie  or  any  other  child 
before  him,  he  is  as  gentle  as  a  lamb.  But,  to  re- 
turn to  Plutarch ;  the  graves  of  Cymon's  mares, 
with  which  he  thrice  conquered  at  the  Olympic 
Games,  were  to  be  seen  in  Plutarch's  time  near  the 
grave  of  their  master.  Those  old  heathen  are  an 
example  to  us  in  some  respects,  Roswell." 

"  So  I  often  thought  last  winter  when  I  was  read 


60  OLD  ROVER. 

mg  Plutarch.  I  wish  winter  would  come  again ! 
You  are  all  the  book  I  have  in  summer,  Stuart." 

"  Oh,  Roswell,  you  can't  say  that.  Don't  you 
remember  what  the  minister  said  last  Sunday,  that 
Nature  was  a  book,  written  all  over  by  the  finger  of 
God,  open  to  all,  and  from  which  all  might  get 
wisdom  if  they  would  but  read  it  ?  that,  our  experi- 
ence was  a  book  from  which  conscience  every  day 
read  us  lessons  ?  and  so  on,  and  so  on." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  I  guess  I  do  remember  it,  for  I 
liked  the  sermon  very  much.  I  do  love  to  hear 
sermons  that  I  can  understand.  I  remember  when 
I  used  to  feel  just  as  our  little  Libby  does.  She  is 
very  fond  of  the  singing,  but  she  says  she  wishes 
they  would  leave  out  the  '  preaching  part.' " 

"  I  should  think  even  Libby  might  have  under- 
stood Mr.  Allen  when  he  preached  to  us  about  the 
treatment  of  animals.  1  was  just  now,  when  we 
were  talking  about  them,  reminded  of  that  ser- 
mon." 

"  What  was  it  1     I  did  not  hear  it." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  that  I  could  tell  you  much 
about  it  now,  but  it  made  me  think  and  feel.  He 
said  a  great  deal  about  the  domestic  animals  being 
one  of  the  great  trusts  we  received  from  the  Crea- 
tor. He  asked  how  the  thoughtless  boy,  who 
whipped  the  tired  horse  up  hill  and  down ;  who 
neglected  to  give  him  drink  when  he  was  thirsty 
and  provender  when  he  was  hungry,  could  answer 
for  this  trust.  How  the  young  man  who  drove  a 
fine  willing  horse  to  the  utmost  of  his  speed,  and 
beyond  his  strength,  just  to  gratify  his  own  vanity 
or  impatience,  could  answer  for  his  trust.  How 
the  farmer  who  beats  his  oxen,  and  makes  them 


OLD    ROVEK.  61 

work  beyond  their  natural  force,  could  answer  for 
it.  He  said  that  animals  were  broken  down  by 
neglect,  maltreatment,  and  cruelty,  so  that  the  ex- 
istence that  was  designed  by  their  Maker  to  be 
filled  with  comfort  and  pleasure  is  a  state  of  dep- 
rivation and  suffering.  He  asked  us  if  any  one 
could  calculate  how  great  a  proportion  of  the  nat- 
ural life  of  animals  was  curtailed  by  man  ;  and  he 
entreated  the  young  people  now,  in  the  beginning 
of  their  lives,  to  consider  this  matter  wisely,  and  to 
resolve  that  they  would  not  abuse  or  neglect  an 
ox,  a  cow,  a  horse,  or  any  animal  dependant  on 
their  care." 

"  Well,  that  was  a  good  sermon  ;  but  how  in 
the  world  could  you  remember  so  much  of  it  ?" 

"  My  mother  has  got  me  into  the  habit  of  attend- 
ing, by  requiring  me  to  write  down  Sunday  even- 
ing whatever  the  minister  says  that  I  can  apply  to 
my  future  conduct ;  but,  mercy  upon  us !  Roswell, 
is  not  that  old  Roan  ?" 

The  boys  had  arrived  at  a  road  that  led  up  to 
Deacon  Bray's,  and  at  this  moment  there  issued  from 
it  two  men,  apparently  intoxicated,  both  mounted 
on  "old  Roan,"  whom  they  were  belabouring,  whip- 
ping, and  kicking  ;  but,  with  all  their  cruel  efforts, 
they  were  unable  to  force  the  old  creature  beyond 
a  moderate  trot,  simply  because  she  had  not  the 
ability  to  go  faster.  Her  nose  was  almost  to  the 
ground ;  she  staggered  under  her  unaccustomed 
load,  and  seemed  at  every  moment  as  if  she  would 
fall.  Running  alongside  the  mare  was  little  Simon 
Bray,  the  deacon's  grandchild,  and,  at  no  great  dis- 
tance behind,  followed  good  old  Mrs.  Bray,  both 
calling  after  the  men,  and  entreating  them  to  stop 
F 


62  OLD   ROVER. 

beating  Roan.  "  She'll  go  as  fast  as  she  can  with- 
out kicking  or  whipping,"  said  little  Simon ;  "  grand- 
father never  whips  her — never — never — never  I" 

"  Stop !"  cried  Roswell,  springing  forward  and 
seizing  the  forward  rider's  whip,  and  "  Stop,  if  ye 
are  men !"  cried  Stuart,  seizing  Roan's  bridle. 

"  We  are  men,  and  Shays'  men !"  they  both  re- 
plied, in  one  breath  ;  but  they  had  scarcely  uttered 
the  words  when  poor  old  Roan,  nearly  spent  be- 
fore, and  quite  overcome  by  the  sudden  check,  fell 
to  the  ground ;  and  the  men,  having  extricated 
themselves,  began  beating  her  to  make  her  rise. 
Simon  cried  bitterly.  "  Oh,  stop  !"  exclaimed  Stu- 
art ;  "  pretty  fellows,  you,  indeed,  to  talk  of  right- 
ing things,  and  go  about  stealing  horses,  and  beat- 
ing them." 

"  Stop  your  sarce,  you  young  chap,"  replied  the 
most  violent  of  the  two  men,  "  or  I'll  beat  you." 

Roswell  had  not  begun  right ;  never  excite  the 
temper  when  you  mean  to  inspire  a  sense  of  jus- 
tice. But  the  boys  did  not  consider,  but  only  ex- 
pressed their  feelings,  which  were  roused  to  the 
highest  pitch. 

"You  may  beat  me  too,"  said  Roswell,  "fori 
,say  it  is  no  better  than  highway  robbery  to  steal 
the  deacon's  horse,  and  I  hope  you  will  live  to  be 
put  in  jail  for  it." 

"  Hoot  toot,  young  upstart,  we  a'nt  going  to 
have  no  more  jails." 

"  My  father  says  the  day  will  come  when  there 
will  be  more  thieves  than  honest  men." 

"  Who  is  your  father  1W 

"  His  father  is  Mr.  Sedley ;  a  name  you  have 


OLD  ROVER.  63 

iieard  before,  and  will  hear  again,  I  guess,"  an- 
swered Roswell. 

"  I  guess  we  shall,  by  the  same  token  that  our 
captain  has  ordered  us  to  rendezvous  at  Squire 
Sedley's."  The  boys  exchanged  looks  of  alarm. 
"  Come,  Jem,"  continued  the  speaker,  "  the  old 
horse  is  no  better  than  a  dead  dog,  so  we  may  as 
well  'be  off  upon  Shanks's  mare." 

So  off  they  went.  "  Oh,"  said  Roswell,  looking 
after  them,  "  I  wish  it  did  not  take  so  long  to 
grow  to  be  a  man.  If  I  had  but  half  my  father's 
strength,  what  a  dressing  I  would  give  them  !" 

"We  have  something  else  to  think  of  now," 
said  Stuart.  "  They  are  going  to  our  house  to 
meet  others  there.  Thank  Heaven,  my  father  is 
gone,  so  they  cannot  take  him  prisoner,  and  they 
say  they  do  no  harm  to  women  and  children  ;  but 
come  home  with  me,  Roswell,  my  mother  will  be 
frightened  out  of  her  wits."  Roswell  readily  ac- 
companied him,  but  not  till  he  had  loosened  Roan's 
girth,  and,  by  stroking  and  patting,  coaxed  her  to 
rise,  and  given  her  into  the  hands  of  little  Simon, 
who  led  her  home,  he  on  one  side  and  his  grand- 
mother on  the  other,  cheering  her  way,  and  de- 
scribing their  feelings.  "  Oh,  Simon,"  said  the  old 
lady,  "  I  felt  awfully  when  they  took  my  silver 
shoe-buckles,  and  my  spoons  that  I  had  when  I 
was  a  girl,  for  they  were  dreadful  near  to  me  ;  but, 
when  they  took  the  old  mare,  it  seemed  almost  as 
if  your  grandfather  was  going." 

"  I  know  it,  grandmother — so  it  did  ;  and  when  I 
looked  into  his  empty  stall,  and  thought  I  should 
never  help  grandfather  spread  the  clean  straw  for 
his  bed  again,  and  never  carry  him  his  mess  of 


64  OLD   ROVER. 

oats — how  glad  I  was  I  never  forgot  them  ! — and 
never  ride  him  down  to  the  watering-trough  again ; 
I  felt  so  bad  I  could  not  help  crying." 

While  this  conversation  was  going  on,  our  young 
friends  were  making  all  haste  to  Mr.  Sedley's. 
When  they  arrived  there  they  found  the  house  full 
of  Shay's  people,  and  the  family  in  the  greatest 
consternation,  excepting  Bet,  a  coloured  woman. 
M  You  need  not  pay  no  respects  to  them,  boys," 
said  she  ;  "  there's  no  'casion  to  b.e  scared  at  them. 
I  know  them  all,  Tim  Smith,  Jem  Brown,  Jed 
Lovejoy,  and  Pete  Pease,  every  mother's  son  of 
them,  and  I  could  fend  them  all  off  with  a  kettle 
of  boiling  beer." 

Stuart  inquired  for  Jo,  a  coloured  servant,  the 
only  man  in  the  establishment.  "  He  was  hidden 
in  the  smoke-house  !  The  only  thing  about  the 
house  that  nobody  would  take  or  give  a  thankye  to 
keep,"  Bet  said.  She  professed  to  feel  no  anxiety 
for  anything  but  Rover ;  but  she  had  heard  one  of 
the  men  suggest  to  the  captain — "  Pete  Pease  a 
captain  !" — that  if  he  took  the  squire's  horse,  his 
would  be  to  spare — to  spare  to  him,  of  course. 
After  some  consultation  it  was  agreed  that  Stuart 
should  go  to  his  mother,  that  she  might  feel  as  if 
she  had  something  like  a  protector.  Roswell  kept 
a  general  lookout  upon  the  proceedings,  and  Bet, 
who  had  secured  about  her  own  person  some  small 
articles  of  plate,  watches,  and  other  valuables,  at- 
tended the  men  in  their  marauding  over  the  house, 
sometimes  scoffing  at  them,  sometimes  deluding 
them,  and,  in  various  ingenious  ways,  preserving  a 
great  portion  of  the  property.* 

*  The  tearless  woman  here  alluded  to  was  one  of  the  most 


OLD    ROVER.  65 

Bet's  only  fear  was  soon  realized.  Rover  was 
led  forth,  saddled  and  bridled,  for  the  captain.  Bet 
was  moved  to  the  bottom  of  her  heart.  She  dis- 
dained to  entreat,  but  she  declared  that  "  Rover 
would  break  the  dum  neck  of  any  one  of  them  who 
dared  to  mount  him !" 

There  was  a  piazza  running  across  the  back  of 
the  house.  There  the  Shays'  men  were  collected. 
The  family  were  assembled  in  a  room  that  over- 
looked the  piazza.  The  blinds  were  closed.  Bet 
stood  on  the  ground  in  front  of  the  steps,  her  arms 
akimbo,  and  Roswell  leaned  against  one  of  the 
posts  of  the  piazza,  his  heart  throbbing  with  indig- 
nation. 

"  Never  say  T  did  not  warn  you  beforehand,  Pete 
Pease,"  said  Bet  to  "  the  captain,1'  as  he  was  about 
to  mount ;  "  Rover  knows  you  from  his  master  as 
well  as  I  do,  and  he  treats*  every  one  according  to 
their  desarvings." 

The  captain,  nowise  alarmed  by  this  menace, 
sprung  into  the  saddle  ;  but  scarcely  had  he  touched 
it  when  he  was  lain  sprawling  on  the  ground. 

"  That's  you,  Rover !"  shouted  Bet,  clapping 
her  hands,  "  back  him  again,  Pete  Pease  !"  Ros- 
well, who  had  done  his  best  to  keep  back  his  tears, 
now  laughed  with  all  his  heart ;  the  men  swore ; 

effective  persons  in  saving  the  property  exposed  to  these  depre- 
dators. At.  one  time,  when  it  was  deemed  prudent  that  the 
family  in  whose  service  she  lived  should  abandon  thehvhouse, 
she  remained,  and,  retaining  with  her  one  of  the  children,  a 
sickly  favourite,  she  hung  a  large  kettle  of  beer  over  the  fire, 
declaring  she  would  scald  to  death  the  first  Shays'  man  that 
entered  the  house.  Her  dauntless  spirit  was  too  well  known  for 
any  one  to  be  bold  enough  to  provoke  a  salute  from  the  beer- 
kettle.  This  mode  of  domestic  defensive  warfare  may  remind 
some  of  our  readers  of  Jennv's  "  het  brose." 

F2 


66  OLD    ROVER. 

the  blind  of  Mrs.  Sedley's  window  was  cautiously 
opened,  and  Stuart's,  and  half  a  dozen  female  faces 
were  seen  peeping  out.  The  captain  again  mounted, 
but  more  cautiously  than  before,  and  not  without 
evident  anxiety.  And  need  was  there  for  it ;  for, 
the  instant  Rover  felt  his  weight,  he  seemed  in- 
stinctively to  know  it  was  no  rightful  hand  upon 
the  bridle  ;  he  snorted,  pawed,  kicked,  and  reared, 
and  again  the  captain  was  laid  in  the  dust.  "  The 
d — 1  is  in  the  horse  !"  cried  the  men. 

"  There's  more  sense  in  him  than  in  all  of  you," 
said  Bet ;  "  but  try  him  again,  Pete — three  times 
and  out  !•" 

"  Yes,  captain,  try  him  again  !"  echoed  the  boys. 
The  captain  would  fain  have  desisted.  He  felt 
sundry  bumps  and  bruises  that  admonished  him  not 
to  tempt  his  fate  a  third  time ;  but  he  was  stung 
by  the  exultation  of  the  "  black  witch,"  as  he  called 
Bet,  and,  raising  a  club,  he  beat  the  noble  steed 
till  the  blood  poured  down  his  white  flanks.  At 
this  sight  every  face  disappeared  from  the  window  ; 
Bet  uttered  a  sound  between  a  growl  and  a  groan, 
and  Roswell  sprung  to  the  horse's  side,  and,  stand- 
ing against  him  as  a  shield,  told  Pease  to  strike 
again  if  he  dared.  Pease  raised  his  arm  ;  but,  see- 
ing Roswell  did  not  flinch  a  hair,  he  let  it  fall, 
saying,  "  Well,  well,  boy,  I'll  not  strike  again  if 
you'll  hold  him  while  I  mount — you  are  acquainted 
with  him — come,  come,  be  neighbourly." 

"  No,  no,  I'll  not  coax  him  into  your  hands,"  said 
Roswell. 

u  Then  stand  out  of  my  way,  you  rascal !"  re- 
torted the  captain  ;  and,  pale  with  passion  and  fear, 
he  once  more  sprung  upon  the  horse,  and  was  a 


OLD    ROVER.  67 

third  time  rejected.  This  time  his  head  fell  against 
the  well  curb,  and  he  was  senseless.  While  his 
companions  were  rendering  him  necessary  assist- 
ance, Stuart,  who,  at  the  gallant  movements  of  his 
friend,  had  jumped  out  of  the  window  and  placed 
himself  at  RoswelFs  side,  now  mounted  Rover. 
Without  putting  his  feet  in  the  stirrups,  and  scarcely 
touching  the  bridle,  and  only  speaking  to  him  in 
his  well-known  voice,  he  rode  him  several  times 
about  the  yard,  and  then,  dismounting,  led  him  to 
his  stable  amid  the  acclamations  of  Rover's  friends, 
and  without  any  interference  from  the  captain's 
men,  who,  by  this  time,  as  well  as  their  leader, 
were  convinced  it  was  safest  to  leave  him  to  his 
lawful  owners. 

I  am  telling  what  all  children  love,  a  true  story  ; 
and  I  assure  them  that  I  have  departed  in  nothing 
material  from  the  facts,  as  they  have  been  often 
related  to  me  by  an  eyewitness ;  that  truly  great 
woman,  who,  in  a  humble  station,  was  the  hero- 
ine of  that  as  of  many  other  interesting  occasions. 

Rover  lived  to  do  many  years'  good  service  ;  and, 
when  old  age  came  upon  him,  and  his  natural 
strength  abated,  and  his  eyes  became  dim,  he  was 
honoured  and  cared  for.  He  suffered  for  several 
of  the  last  years  of  his  life  from  an  incurable  disease, 
called  the  poll  evil,  which  was  only  alleviated  by 
bathing  his  neck  with  spirits.  Twice  every  day 
the  emollient  was  applied,  and  barrels  of  liquor 
were  lavished  to  abate  the  sufferings  of  this  old 
member  of  the  family,  for  so  "  Old  Rover"  truly 
seemed. 

Poor  fellow !  his  roving  days  were  then  over. 
His  outgoings  were  confined  to  bearing  a  rantipole 
girl  some'  hundred  roods  to  her  school ;  even  then 


68  OLD    ROVER. 

he  seemed  to  sympathize  with  her  gay  young 
spirits,  and  splashed  through  the  muddy  street  as 
if  his  old  limbs  felt  the  beatings  of  her  bounding 
heart ! 

I  fear  I  may  have  tired  my  young  readers,  and 
they  may  reproach  me  with  palming  off  on  them 
as  a  story  what,  after  all,  is  none ;  but  I  shall  not 
have  written,  nor  they  read  in  vain,  if  I  have  in- 
duced any  one  to  be  more  considerate  of  animals, 
more  studious  of  their  characters,  and  more  just, 
forbearing,  and  kind  to  them.  It  will  be  among 
the  pleasant  things  to  remember  when  they  come 
to  the  close  of  life,  that  they  have  never  abused 
one  of  the  brute  creation.  I  had  forgotten  to  say 
that  old  Jo  remained  safely  ensconced  in  the 
smokehouse,  and  that  he  afterward  took  precious 
care  of  himself  through  the  dangers  of  a  long  life. 
When  he  was  in  his  last  sickness,  and  fast  going 
down  to  the  grave,  I  was  reading  the  Bible  to  him, 
and  chanced  upon  that  passage,  "  a  merciful  man  is 
merciful  to  his  beast !"  "  That's  what  I  have 
been,"  said  he,  interrupting  me.  "  No  dumb  beast 
can  ever  have  a  word  to  say  against  me  !  Many 
a  time  have  I  been  up  till  midnight,  when  our  folks 
have  been  out,  but  never  did  I  leave  my  horses  till 
they  were  rubbed  down,  watered,  and  fed ;  to  be 
sure,  I  have  been  ugly  enough  to  folks,  but  never 
to  a  dumb  beast ;  I  have  done  my  duty  complately 
to  them."  Poor  old  Jo,  we  can  recommend  his 
example  only  as  far  as  relates  to  the  brute  crea- 
tion ;  but  we  hope  that  our  young  friends,  when 
they  come  to  the  close  of  life,  will  be  not  only  as 
sure  as  he  was  that  no  dumb  beast  will  ever  speajt 
a  word  against  them,  but  that  many  a  tongue  that 
can  speak  will  bear  them  good  testimony. 


THE   CHA-IN   OF   LOVE. 


"  HE    THAT    LOVETH   NOT,    KNOWETH    NOT    GOD  ; 
FOR    GOD    IS    LOVE." 

A  traveller  gives  the  following  account  of  an 
unknown  country,  an  immense  island.  It  would 
be  in  vain  to  look  for  it,  as  it  is  not  yet  laid  down 
on  any  geographical  map  or  chart.  Our  traveller 
called  the  island  Probation,  and  represents  its  face 
as  resembling  countries  with  which  we  are  well 
acquainted.  He  says  there  are  there  large,  un- 
subdued, and,  indeed,  unexplored  tracts  of  land, 
mountains  that  have  not  yet  been  surmounted,  and 
rivers  not  yet  explored. 

A  considerable  portion  of  the  island  is  cultivated, 
and  embellished  by  a  company  of  sturdy  youths, 
called  Industry,  Enterprise,  Skill,  and  Perseve- 
rance. These  have  cut  down  forests,  planted 
fields,  made  roads,  dug  canals,  erected  manufac- 
tories, constructed  bridges,  built  cities,  and,  in 
short,  made  the  Island  of  Probation  look  much 
like  our  own  flourishing  land.  There  are  circum- 
stances, however,  peculiar  to  the  people  of  Proba- 
tion, which  we  shall  endeavour  to  give  in  the  trav- 
eller's own  words. 

**  On  making  some  inquiries  about  the  govern- 
ment of  this  island,"  he  says,  "  I  was  told  that  it 


70  THE    CHAIN    OF    LOVE. 

had  a  sovereign  of  unlimited  power  and  perfect 
goodness,  whose  laws,  if  obeyed,  ensured  health 
and  happiness  to  his  people.  His  home,  styled 
1  the  City  of  the  King,'  was  in  a  high  mountain, 
whence,  unseen  by  them,  he  could  look  down  upon 
all  the  dwellers  in  his  wide  domains.  This  mount- 
ain appeared  to  the  spectators  below  to  be  girt 
about  with  clouds  and  darkness  ;  but,  in  reality, 
neither  darkness  nor  storms  of  any  kind  approached 
it.  There  were  changes,  but  always  from  one 
kind  of  beauty  to  another,  from  one  degree  of  ex- 
cellence to  a  higher.  The  access  to  this  lovely  re- 
gion, from  which  those  who  once  entered  it  never 
departed,  was  open  to  every  subject  of  the  king, 
but  it  was  only  by  exactly  obeying  his  directions, 
and  following  the  guides  he  sent,  that  it  could  be 
attained.  His  subjects  were  born  on  the  outside 
of  the  wall  that  surrounded  this  earthly  paradise, 
and  thence  were  sent  forth  by  their  sovereign  to 
perform  certain  labours  on  his  territory.  The  sov 
ereign,  at  their  setting  out,  bound  aroimd  them  an 
elastic  and  flexible  chain,  which,  no  way  impeding 
"iheir  movements,  was  firmly  attached  to  his  throne. 
This  was  called  the  Chain  of  Love.  It  had  many 
marvellous  properties.  By  it  they  could  always 
Keep  up  a  communication  with  him  ;  they  received 
infallible  intimations  of  his  will,  and  sure  aid  in 
doing  it.  None  were  conscious  of  the  folds  of  the 
chain  but  those  who  drank  from  a  certain  spring 
called  Faith,  which,  issuing  from  within  the  cloud- 
enveloped  circle,  gushed  out  at  the  mountain's 
side,  and  spread  in  little  rills  over  the  whole  island. 
"  It  was  curious  to  see  how  perfect  the  links  of 
the  chain  were  around  the  infant  j  what  a  myste- 


THE    CHAIN    OF    LOVE.  71 

rious  but  obvious  connexion  there  was  between  it 
and  the  soul-beaming  eye  ;  the  arms  outstretched  in 
fondness,  and  the  love-kindled  smile.  You  will  have 
a  clearer  idea  of  the  chain  if  I  confine  my  descrip- 
tion to  a  particular  family,  which  I  marked  more 
than  any  other  in  the  island.  They  were  numer- 
ous, and  not  rich,  but,  for  the  most  part,  respectable 
and  laborious.  The  parents  would  have  felt  the 
children  a  burden  to  them ;  but,  as  soon  as  they 
were  born,  the  Chain  of  Love  appeared  around  them, 
and  then  all  was  light  and  easy.  At  the  birth  of 
each  child  the  father  cheerfully  toiled  the  harder, 
and  the  mother  was  never  wearied  with  watching 
and  tending,  such  wonderful  strength  did  they  get 
from  the  chain.  If  the  child  were  sick,  the  broth- 
ers and  sisters  would  tread  lightly  around  the  cra- 
dle, and  be  ready,  each  one,  to  do  some  kind  office,; 
and  then  I  saw  link  added  after  link,  and  sparks 
flying  from  them  in  every  direction,  giving  a  cheer- 
ful light. 

"  It  is  true  that  the  children  in  this  family,  like 
others,  were  of  various  dispositions.  There  was 
one  called  Passionate.  I  heard,  and  often  too,  his 
chain  go  snap  !  snap !  and  then  it  would  fall  off, 
and  he  would  have  been  quite  separated  from  his 
brothers  and  sisters  but  for  one  of  them,  Sweet-tem- 
per, who  would  pick  up  the  broken  links,  and  beg 
the  rest  to  help  her  mend  the  chain  with  the  ce- 
ment of  forgiveness.  This  they  did  so  perfectly 
that  I  could  scarcely  perceive  where  it  had  been 
broken  ;  but,  as  it  proved,  each  break  made  it  more 
liable  to  break  again. 

"  One  of  the  girls,  named  Detraction,  was  squint- 
eyed.     She  was  as  incapable  of  reporting  right  as 


72  THE    CHAIN    OF   LOVE. 

of  seeing  straight.  Whenever  she  spoke  corro- 
sive drops  fell  from  her  lips,  which  would  so 
eat  off  the  chain  that  it  would  no  longer  have 
served  to  bind  the  family  together ;  but,  luckily, 
two  of  her  brothers,  two  watchful,  honest  little 
fellows  they  were,  Candour  and  Truth,  washed  off 
the  drops  as  they  fell.  Truth  often  had  to  scour 
the  chain  afterward,  and  I  observed  it  never  failed  to 
become  stronger  as  well  as  brighter  under  his  hand. 
All  his  care,  however,  could  not  preserve  the  chain 
that  bound  Detraction  to  the  rest  of  the  family. 
She  could  not  abide  the  touch  of  Truths  so  her 
chain  soon  dropped  off.  She  was  ever  afterward 
shunned  by  the  wise  and  prudent ;  for  it  was  evi- 
dent she  never  approached  any  company  without 
manifest  danger  to  the  Chain  of  Love. 

There  was  one  pleasant  little  girl  called  Cheer- 
fulness. Every  one  liked  to  be  neap  her.  Her 
touch  alone  brightened  the  chain  ;  and,  when  any 
one  of  the  family  had  a  heavy  load  to  lift  or  a 
hard  task  to  perform,  if  she  but  laid  her  hand  on 
the  chain  all  seemed  light  and  easy.  How  differ- 
ent was  the  influence  of  her  brother  Jealousy, 
whose  very  breath  dimmed  the  chain,  and,  if  Can- 
dour did  not  wipe  off  the  stains,  they  became  rust, 
and  ate  the  links  apart.  As  the  family  proceeded 
their  chains  became  stronger  and  his  weaker,  till 
he  too  fell  off  and  strayed  from  them. 

"  I  watched,"  continued  the  traveller,  "  the  fam- 
ily's progress  over  the  island.  I  saw  them  going 
together  into  a  deep  sunless  abyss  called  Adver- 
sity. There  was  an  east  wind  blowing,  and  tor- 
rents of  rain  falling,  and  I  expected  the  chain 
would  be  rusted  and  ruined  ;  but,  instead  of  this,  as 


THE    CHAIN    OF    LOVE.  73 

they  went  down  the  craggy  and  sharp  descent, 
their  feet  bleeding  and  their  frames  shivering,  I 
saw  that  it  was  the  chain  alone  that  sustained 
them.  It  bound  one  to  another,  and  gave  to  each 
the  force  of  all.  Then  and  afterward  it  was  man- 
ifest that  the  chain  was  capable  of  resisting  every 
external  danger ;  that  it,  indeed,  became  stronger 
from  external  strain  and  pressure  ;  and  that  the  only 
danger  of  cracking  and  breaking  it  arose  from  the 
character  of  those  whom  it  encompassed.  One 
among  them,  a  sturdy,  hard-faced  fellow,  named 
Resistance,  endeavoured  to  turn  back  and  to  ward 
off  the  storm.  Instead  of  yielding  to  the  pressure 
of  the  chain,  which  constantly,  as  they  descended 
into  the  dark  abyss,  drew  the  others  closer  and 
closer,  and  bound  them  more  firmly  together,  he 
pulled  away ;  and,  looking  up  defyingly,  when  the 
rest  meekly  bent  to  the  earth,  the  storm  beat  in  his 
face  and  blinded  him  ;  and  then  he  turned  every 
way,  throwing  out  his  arms  and  stamping  furious- 
ly, till  he  severed  the  chain,  and  rolled,  alone  and 
screaming  with  anger  and  pain,  down  the  dark  de- 
scent. The  rest  trod  cautiously,  watching  and 
praying  as  they  went ;  they  gradually  disappeared, 
being  wrapped  in  the  storm  and  quite  lost  to  sight ; 
but,  when  the  tempest  abated,  they  emerged,  their 
eyes  all  turned  towards  the  high  dwelling-place  of 
their  king,  and  their  faces  shining  with  a  dazzling 
radiance,  the  reflection  of  the  chain,  that,  enuring 
their  passage  through  Adversity,  had,  instead  of 
becoming  dull,  grown  brighter  and  brighter.  Now 
they  had  a  sure  footing  and  a  clear  sky  over  their 
heads ;  food  and  healing  fruits  on  every  side  of 
them,  with  the  shining  Fields  of  Prosperity  before 
G 


74  THE    CHAIN    OF    LOVE. 

them.  Now,  for  the  first  time,  missing  their 
brother,  two  of  the  sisters,  Pity  and  .Hope,  Hope 
leading  the  way,  turned  back  in  search  of  him 
seeming  to  think  nothing  of  their  own  suffering? 
if  thereby  they  might  save  their  brother.  The) 
found  him  quite  overpowered  by  the  storm,  alone 
sullen,  and  despairing.  Pity  bent  over  him  weep 
ing,  while  Hope,  with  her  .dancing  eyes  ana 
cheering  voice,  urged  him  to  rise  and  move  for- 
ward. Still  he  seemed  deaf  and  motionless  till 
they  bound  around  him  their  Chain  of  Love  ;  then, 
leaning  on  Pity,  he  followed  Hope,  saying,  '  Many 
is  the  message  I  have  received  from  our  wise  old 
friend  Reason,  and  many  a  menace  of  the  king's 
judgments  has  been  shouted  in  my  ear  by  those 
who  passed  me  by  in  the  dark  abyss ;  but  never, 
my  dear  sisters,  till  I  felt  the  touch  of  your  chain, 
was  I  inclined  to  change  my  name  from  Resistance 
to  Submission,  and  move  forward  with  you.' 

"  I  was  sorry  to  observe,"  continued  the  trav- 
eller, "  that,  when  Resistance  had  rejoined  his  fam- 
ily, who  were  moving  on  in  a  straight  and  narrow 
path,  he  soon  became  again  impatient  of  the  diffi- 
culties of  the  way.  While  all  the  rest  seemed  to 
have  been  strengthened  by  their  passage  through 
the  abyss  of  Adversity,  his  vigour  was  abated,  and 
his  eyesight  was  fearfully  impaired  by  the  blind- 
ness he  had  suffered  there,  insomuch  that  he  was 
constantly  stumbling  and  pursuing  for  substances 
what  every  one  else  knew  to  be  mere  vapours. 
He  grew  regardless  and  careless  of  his  chain,  too, 
which  could  only  be  kept  bright  and  strong  by 
1  words  and  deeds  of  love'  done  '  in  the  name  of 
the  Lord.'     The  narrow  path  often  led  through 


THE    CHAIN    OF    LOVE.  75 

green  pastures  and  beside  still  waters  ;  but  though 
skirting  the  Fields  of  Prosperity,  it  never  entered 
them.  Broad  openings  there  were  that  led  into 
them,  and  largely  did  travellers  turn  therein  ;  but 
our  family,  knowing  there  was  great  heat  as  well 
as  light  in  these  fields,  and  seeing  that  the  chains 
often  melted  off  from  those  who  passed  through 
them,  wisely  adhered  to  their  narrow  path,  which 
was  often  sufficiently  lighted  by  gleams  from  the 
Fields  of  Prosperity. 

"  But  the  foolish  brother  grew  impatient  of  his 
slow  and  difficult  progress,  and  his  frettings  and 
grumblings  wore  his  chain  thin ;  and  then,  with  a 
sudden  bound,  he  severed  it,  and  made  haste  to- 
wards the  Fields  of  Prosperity.  There  the  ex- 
cessive light  again  blinded  his  eyes,  which  had 
been  much  injured  by  his  conduct  in  the  abyss 
of  Adversity.  He  was  beset  by  flatterers  who 
misled  him,  and  he  followed  at  random  the  calls  of 
Pleasure,  who,  taking  advantage  of  his  blindness, 
always  eluded  him.  At  last  he  sunk  down  wearied 
and  disgusted.  Soon  there  appeared  to  him  a  fiend- 
like shape  called  Retribution,  holding  a  scourge  in 
her  hand,  and  unconsciously  guided  by  the  spirit 
Mercy.  Retribution  inflicted  her  blows  on  our 
foolish  wanderer.  Even  Mercy  could  not  mitigate 
the  strokes  ;  but  she  laid  her  hand  on  the  eyes  of 
the  sufferer,  and  he  received  his  sight,  and  fled  to- 
wards the  narrow  path,  pursued  and  still  scourged 
by  Retribution.  But  his  strength  increased  at  ev- 
ery step  as  he  approached  the  path,  and,  as  he 
sprang  into  it,  he  was  received  in  the  arms  of  Pen- 
itence, a  sad-looking  nymph,  who,  though  she  did 
not  allay  the  anguish-  of  his  wounds,  prevented 


76  THE    CHAIN    OF    LOVE. 

Retribution  from  inflicting  more.  Now  the  poor 
wanderer  cried  out,  '  Oh  that  I  could  again  stand 
among  my  brothers  and  sisters,  and  feel  around 
me  that  blessed  chain !' 

"  '  I  can  do  nothing  more  than  I  have  done  for 
you,'  said  Penitence.  '  I  am  stationary.  No  one 
makes  progress  that  depends  on  me  alone.  I  can, 
however,  consign  you  to  my  sister  Repentance, 
who  will  lead  you  along  the  narrow  way  you  for- 
sook, and,  if  you  faithfully  obey  her,  you  will  find 
yourself  again  attached  to  the  great  chain  that 
reaches  to  the  throne  of  our  king,  and  encompassed 
with  the  links  that  bind  your  brothers  and  sisters.' 
Hardly  had  she  finished  speaking  when  our  wan- 
derer's eye  met  the  glance  of  Hope,  who  was  beck- 
oning him  onward  ;  and,  renerved  by  her  smile,  he 
embraced  Repentance,  and  set  forward. 

"  Now,  as  he  steadily  moved  on,  he  felt  his  chain, 
and  saw  link  added  to  link,  and  each  glowing  under 
his  hand,  as,  at  a  signal  from  Repentance,  he  stopped 
to  heal  some  wound  he  had"  inflicted,  or  to  repair 
some  mischief  that,  in  his  blind  progress,  he  had 
committed.  His  companion  was  stern  and  uncom- 
promising, but  he  faithfully  obeyed  all  her  com- 
mands, though  hard  sayings  they  were;  and  as 
Hope,  when  she  leads  Repentance,  never  leads 
astray,  he  soon  found  himself  amid  his  brothers 
and  sisters,  and  again  bound  in  the  precious  folds 
of  that  chain  of  love  which  had  been  so  pleasant 
to  him  in  childhood,  so  heedlessly  and  sinfully 
broken,  and  whose  touch  now  gave  new  life  to  his 
soul." 

Our  traveller  quite  lost  sight  of  Detraction  and 
Jealousy,  and  kriew  not  what  became  of  them ; 


THE    CHAIN    OF    LOVE.  77 

but  he  was  told  by  one  who  could  discern  between 
the  righteous  and  the  wicked,  between  those  who 
served  God  and  those  who  served  him  not,  that 
there  was  but  one  path,  the  straight  and  narrow 
one,  which  led  to  the  mountain  of  the  Great  King. 
In  that  path  the  rest  of  the  family  steadily  travelled, 
performing  the  work  their  king  had  assigned  them 
by  the  way,  and  obeying  the  laws  he  had  given 
them.  Death  met  one  after  another,  and  was  re- 
ceived as  a  friend,  not  as  an  enemy.  It  was  cu- 
rious to  see  how,  'at  his  approach,  the  chains  that 
bound  them  together  drew  them  closer  and  closer ; 
how  they  seemed  to  press  them  on  to  every  act 
that  sustained  or  soothed  ;  and  how  the  folds  of  that 
chain,  that  reached  to  the  bright  mountain,  wrapped 
them  round  and  round,  and  drew  them  nearer  and 
nearer  to  their  final  home,  till  they  were  lost  in  the 
clouds  and  darkness  that  enfolded  it.  No  eye  could 
pierce  this  curtain  of  clouds,  but  a  voice  was  heard 
from  within,  saying,  "  He  that  overcometh  shall 
inherit  all  things  ;  and  I  will  be  his  God,  and  he 
shall  be  my  son." 

G2 


MILL-HILL. 


"  SHE  OPENETH  HER  MOUTH  WITH  WISDOM,  AND  IN 
HER  TONGUE  IS  THE  LAW  OF  KINDNESS." 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  town  of  Vernon  there  is 
a  neighbourhood  called  Mill-hill,  so  named  from  a 
sawmill  that  stands  over  a  little  brook  which  runs 
murmuring  down  between  the  hills,  and  then  passes 
off  through  the  lowlands. 

There  is  a  gentle  slope,  where  the  steeper  part 
of  the  hill  ends,  which  has  been  fenced  in  for  a 
burying-ground,  and  here  the  people  of  Mill-hill 
bury  their  dead,  the  village  cemetery  being  four 
miles  distant.  There  are  two  or  three  marble 
monuments  among  the  graves,  and  no  more  ;  for 
the  people  of  Mill-hill  are  far  from  being  rich,  and 
cannot  well  honour  their  dead  in  this  way.  But 
they  love  them  as  well  as  if  they  built  marble  tem- 
ples over  them ;  and  they  have  their  own  simple 
monuments,  which  I  like  quite  as  well,  and  which 
better  prove  their  memory  of  the  departed,  for 
these  memorials  require  care  from  month  to  month, 
and  year  to  year.  Each  grave  has  a  brown  head- 
stone, bearing  the  name,  birth,  and  death  of  the 
persons  whose  graves  they  mark.  Then  the  little 
mound  is  planted  round  with  the  wild  roses,  laurels, 


MILL-HILL.  79 

and  honeysuckles  which  grow  in  abundance  over 
the  neighbouring  hills,  and  the  clematis,  orchis, 
and  lobelia  from  the  low  grounds.  Decked  with 
these  love  tokens,  with  the  shadow  of  the  hill  fall- 
ing on  it,  and  the  shining  stream  almost,  belting 
it,  the  Mill-hill  burying-ground  looks  like  a  lovely 
"  sleeping-place,"  as  the  Greeks  called  their  places 
of  interment ;  or,  rather,  it  seems  to  merit  that  still 
more  appropriate  name  which  the  Germans  give  to 
their  burial-places,  "  God's  Field." 

It  is  rare  in  our  country  to  see  shrubbery  and 
flowers  about  the  grave.  The  neglected  aspect  of 
many  a  village  churchyard  offends  the  eye.  We 
will  not  now  stop  to  inquire  into  the  reason  of 
this ;  we  will  not  ask  why  they  are  not  hedge'd 
around  with  trees,  in  the  fall  and  spring  so  fit  a 
symbol  of  the  decay  and  resurrection  of  man  ;  but 
we  will  explain  how  it  happened  that  at  Mill-hill, 
where  the  families  all  did  their  own  work,  and 
must,  therefore,  do  the  planting  and  tending  with 
their  own  hands,  that  so  much  pains  was  bestowed 
on  what  returned  no  harvest  but  to  the  heart.  Ask 
any  one  at  Mill-hill  whose  thought  it  was  thus  to 
beautify  their  burial-place,  and  you  will  be  an- 
swered, "  Emma  Maxwell's.  Emma  is  so  thought- 
ful about  the  children,  and  she  thinks,  if  there  are 
flowers  about  the  graves,  it  will  take  off  their  gloomy 
feelings,  and  they ,  won't  be  so  shy  about  going 
there.  She  says  it's  a  teaching-place,  for  there 
is  always  a  still  small  voice  comes  up  from  the 
grave  ;  and  besides,  since  we  have  tried  it,  the 
neighbours  all  say  it's  a  comfort  to  do  it."  Should 
you  proceed  in  your  inquiries,  and  ask  "  who 
planted  the  trumpet-creeper  that  winds  round  and 


80  MILL-HILL. 

round  that  old  dead  tree  by  the  schoolhouse,  and* 
who  trained  the  sweetbriers  round  the  windows," 
you  will  be  answered, "  the  children  did  it, but  Emma 
has  seen  to  it."  "And  who  cut  out  the  earth  like 
stairs  to  '  Prospect  Rock'  at  the  top  of  the  hill?" 
"  The  boys,  but  Emma  Maxwell  put  it  into  their 
heads."  "  And  who  keeps  the  Sunday-school  for 
those  little  Irish  children  from  the  shanties  on  the 
railroad  ?"  "  Emma  Maxwell ;  who  but  she  would 
take  the  trouble,  when  their  folks  did  not  care  one 
straw  whether  they  were  taught  or  not  ?" 

And  so  you  might  go  on  for  an  hour,  and  find 
that  Emma  Maxwell  did  good  deeds  that  others, 
for  want  of  thought  (and  perhaps  faith)  rather  than 
time  or  heart,  do  not  do. 

There  are  persons  in  this  world  who  would  al- 
most seem  to  be  deprived  of  the  natural  relations  of 
parents,  brothers  and  sisters,  husband  and  children, 
that  they  may  do  the  little  odd  jobs  for  the  human 
family  left  undone  by  the  regular  labourers.  Emma 
Maxwell  was  one  of  these,  God's  missionaries  to 
his  children.  Emma  was  an  orphan.  She  lived 
at  her  uncle's,  where,  though  she  paid  her  board, 
she  rendered  many  services  that  lightened  the  bur- 
den of  life  to  every  member  of  the  family.  Per- 
haps some  of  my  young  readers  would  like  to  know 
how  Miss  Emma  Maxwell  looked.  She  was  tall, 
and  not  very  slender,  for  she  took  good  care  of  her 
health,  and  had  the  reward  of  her  care  in  strength 
and  cheerfulness,  and  the  sign  of  it  in  the  bright 
bloom  of  her  cheek.  She  had  a  soft  blue  eye,  and 
one  of  the  sweetest  mouths  I  ever  saw.  How 
could  it  be  otherwise  ?  for  never  any  but  kind 
words  and  soft  tones  came  from  it.     And  she  had 


MILL-HILL.  81 

— do  not  be  shocked,  my  gentle  readers — red  hair. 
Depend  upon  it,  all  young  ladies,  be  they  good  and 
lovely,  and  even  pretty  (and  pretty  Emma  undeni- 
ably was),  do  not  have — except  in  books — "  auburn 
hair,"  or  "  flaxen,"  or  even  "  rich  brown."  Emma's 
hair  was  so  plainly  and  neatly  arranged,  that  no 
one  noticed  it  except  to  say  that  'k  somehow  red  hair 
did  not  look  badly  on  Emma  Maxwell."  The  light 
that  comes  from  within  can  make  everything  with- 
out look  agreeable  in  our  eyes.  Many  wondered 
why  Emma  Maxwell,  who,  at  the  date  of  our  story, 
was  full  four-and-twenty,  was  not  married,  and 
she  "  so  attractive  and  so  excellent."  The  mothers 
said,  knowingly,  "  the  right  one'''  had  not  asked 
her ;  and  the  young  girls,  with  all  their  horrors  of 
an  old  maid,  almost  hoped  that  "  the  right  one" 
never  would  ask  her  away  from  Mill-hill. 

Emma  had  escaped  that  worst  evil,  sometimes 
the  consequence  of  the  early  loss  of  friends,  a  dim- 
inution of  her  affections.  Hers  were  "  set  on 
things  above."  Her  heart  went  out  to  meet  every 
human  being  gently  and  silently,  like  the  falling 
of  the  dews  of  Heaven.  There  was  no  bustle,  no 
talk.  By  her  fruit  she  was  known.  She  often  re- 
sembled those  flowers  that,  unseen,  give  out  sweet 
odours ;  her  kindness  was  enjoyed,  and  its  source 
never  known. 

When  the  new  railroad  that  runs  near  Mill-hill 
was  to  be  made,  the  neighbourhood  was  alarmed. 
They  dreaded  the  Irish,  whom  they  regarded  as 
savages  ;  and  when  Emma  Maxwell  said,  at  the 
meeting  of  the  "  ladies'  sewing  society"  on  Satur- 
day afternoon,  "  I  do  not  think  we  shall  have  any 
trouble  from  them  if  we  only  treat  them  right," 


82  MILL-HILL. 

the  good  women  replied,  they  "guessed  Emma 
would  find  herself  mistaken  for  once."  Emma, 
however,  maintained  her  own  opinion.  She  had 
always  courage  and  hope  when  good  was  to  be  done. 

The  very  next  day  after  the  sewing  meeting, 
late  on  Sunday  afternoon,  Emma  was  sitting  alone 
on  a  favourite  shady  seat  near  the  brook,  when  four 
men,  carrying  the  coffin  of  a  child,  and  followed  by 
a  woman  with  an  old  cloak  wrapped  around  her 
head  and  all,  and  leading  a  little  girl,  passed  her. 
The  child  was  crying  aloud.  Emma's  eye  followed 
them.  They  entered  the  burying-ground,  where 
two  of  their  friends,  who  had  obtained  leave  to 
bury  their  dead  there,  had  dug  the  grave,  and 
awaited  them.  The  last  office  was  soon  done,  and 
the  men  went  their  way.  The  woman  lingered 
with  the  child,  who  threw  herself  down  on  the 
fresh  sods,  and  seemed  not  to  hear  her,  though 
she  commanded  and  entreated  by  turns.  "  Come, 
Anny,"  she  said,  "  what's  the  use,  honey  ?  If  ye 
cry  the  salt  ocean  ye  cannot  bring  her  back.  Ye 
must  just  come,  for  Mike  will  be  after  wanting  his 
supper.  Lord  help  the  child  !  she'll  fret*  the  soul 
out  of  her !"  Emma  rose,  and,  approaching  the 
fence,  leaned  against  it  near  the  new  grave.  "  Lave 
me  here  wi'  Judy  just  a  bit!"  said  the  child,  im- 
ploringly. 

M  Let  her  stay — please,"  said  Emma,  "  and  1 
will  see  her  safe  home  ;  you  live,  I  suppose,  in 
one  of  the  shanties  by  the  railroad  ?" 

"  Yes,  bless  ye,  miss,"  replied  the  woman,  turn- 
ing suddenly  at  the  sweet  sound  of  Emma's  voice ; 

*  The  Irish  use  fret  for  grieve. 


MILL-HILL.  83 

and  then,  drawing  near  to  her,  she  added,  "keep 
your  eye  upon  her,  miss  ;  I  fears  she'll  be  after 
digging  down  to  Judy ;  they  were  as  if  they  grew 
together,  poor  things,  and  no  wonder,  they,  the 
last  of  their  people.  Mike,  that  same  is  my  hus- 
band, miss,  Mike  and  I  are  only  ship  acquaintance, 
but  we'll  not  send  her  out  upon  the  wide  world, 
though  the  Lord — blessed  be  his  name  ! — has  given 
us  enough  of  our  own.  Anny,  honey,  when  ye've 
done  fretting,  come  home — what's  gone  is  gone." 

With  this  poor  and  common  comfort,  after  drop- 
ping a  courtesy  to  Emma,  she  took  her  way  home ; 
and  Anny,  believing  herself  alone,  turned  her  face 
to  the  sods,  and  cried  bitterly.  "  Oh,  Judy,  Judy  !" 
she  groaned,  "  I  cannot  live  without  ye.  Why 
can't  I  lie  quiet  in  here  ?  If  I  were  with  ye  I 
would  content  me — I  would — I  would  ;  but  I  am 
all  alone  ;  father  in  the  deep  sea,  and  mammy,  and 
Bobby,  and  you,  Judy,  buried  up  in  the  ground,  and 
I  never  to  see  you  more — never — never — never!" 

So  Emma  sat  down  by  the  little  girl,  and  put 
her  arm  over  her.  "  You  will  see  them  all  again, 
my  child,"  she  said ;  "  the  grave  will  give  up  its 
dead." 

Anny  looked  up.  She  fixed  her  eye  earnestly 
on  her,  stranger  as  she  was.  Emma's  compassion- 
ate voice  had  reached  her  heart.  "  The  grave  give 
back  the  dead !"  she  exclaimed ;  then  she  laid  her 
head  down  again,  crying,  "  No,  no,  they  that  die 
never  come  back  again — never — never !" 

11  But,  my  child,  have  you  never  read  in  the  Bi- 
ble that  they  that  die  shall  live  again  ?" 

"Miss?" 

"  God  tells  us  so  by  his  word  written  in  the  Bi- 


84  MILL-HILL. 

ble/'  Anny  did  not  answer;  she  did  not  seem  to 
hear;  her  head  was  again  down  on  the  sods,  and 
she  was  crying,  and  calling  on  Judy.  "  Oh,  don't 
you  hear  me  ?  oh,  spake  to  me — spake  one  word 
— say  but  Anny  !  and  I'll  be  quiet — I  will — quiet 
as  you  are,  Judy !     Oh,  she  can't  hear  me  !" 

"  There  is  One  that  hears  and  will  answer  you, 
my  poor  child,  if  she  cannot." 

"  No,  no,  none  of  them  hears  ;  I  have  called 
them  all,  day  and  night ;  I  cry,  and  none  of  them 
answers  ;  no,  not  mammy,  that  always  heard  when 
the  life  was  in  her."  • 

"  Your  Father  in  heaven,  God,  hears  and  pities 
you,  my  child." 

"  No,  no,  he  vdoes  not  hear  me.  Did  not  I  cry 
to  him  ?  did  not  1  beg  him  to  leave  me  just  only 
Judy  ?  God  forgive  me — I  can't  help  it— and  did 
he  not  take  her  from  me  just  the  like  of  the 
others  V 

"  But,  my  child,  you  must  remember  God's  ways 
are  not  as  our  ways."  Anny  did  not  understand 
Emma  Maxwell,  but  she  felt  that  she  pitied  her, 
and  she  looked  earnestly  at  her.  "  I  say,  my  child, 
God's  ways  are  not  as  our  ways,"  she  repeated ; 
"  he  chasteneth  whom  he  loveth."  Still  Anny 
did  not  understand.  She  had  never  heard  the  Bi- 
ble read  and  explained  as  the  favoured  children  of 
our  Sunday-schools  hear  it  every  week,  and  its 
language  conveyed  no  idea  to  her  mind.  Emma 
might  as  well  have  spoken  to  her  in  Greek.  She 
spoke  plainer.    "  You  know  there  is  a  God  ?" 

"  They  say  there  is,  miss." 

"  You  believe  that  he  is  good  ?" 

Anny  shook  her  head.     "  If,"  she  replied^  "  he 


MILL-HILL.  85 

had  been  so  very  good,  would  he  have  taken  them 
all  away ;  father,  and  mother,  and  poor  little  Bob- 
by, and,  lasi,  of  all,  Judy  ?" 

"But,  my  child,  if  you  were  sure.it  was  for 
Judy's  good  to  die  now  ;  if  you  were  sure  it  was  for 
the  happiness  of  your  parents  and  little  Bobby 
that  they  were  taken  away  from  you,  if  you  were 
sure,  I  say,  then  would  you  not  feel  that  God  was 
good  r 

'*  I  can't  say,  miss,"  replied  Anny,  rising  up  on 
her  knees,  and  resting  her  arms  on  Emma's  lap. 

"If  you  could  see  that  by  their  deaths  you  were 
to  be  made  better  and  happier,  then  would  you  not 
feel  that  God  is  good  ?" 

"  Happier  !  happier  !  that  can't  be,  miss." 

"  Oh,  my  child,  ever  since  the  world  was  made, 
people  have  felt  that  it  was  good  for  them  to  be 
afflicted.  There  are  hard  hearts  that  are  never 
softened  till  God  sends  death  and  takes  away 
something  that  is  dear  to  them  ;  there  are  hearts 
that  are  never  softened  till  they  feel  death  coming 
upon  themselves." 

"  That's  true  !  that's  true !  for  old  O'Leary  it 
was  that  begged  forgiveness  of  my  poor  father  and 
mother — God  rest  them  ! — when  he  was  dying,  and 
gave  us  back  the  money  for  the  cow  he  had  seized 
for  the  rent.  Yes,  sure,  God  is  good  when  he 
sends  death  to  take  off  the  wicked  people  like 
O'Leary." 

"  And  when  he  takes  the  good  away  frdm  all  the 
troubles  of  this  world,  Anny.  God  has  made  us  to 
live  for  ever.  The  time  that  we  live  in  this  world 
is  but  just  the  beginning  of  our  lives.  This  is  all 
we  see,  and  we  act  as  if  this  were  all.  Your  friends 
H 


86  MILL-HILL. 

are  living,  Army,  just  as  much  as  they  were  when  you 
could  see  them.  The  soul  cannot  die.  It  is  only 
the  body  that  dies  ;  that  is  put  down  as  we  put  off 
our  clothes  when  we  go  to  bed ;  but  that  part  of 
you  which  thinks  and  feels,  which  loves,  which 
remembers  your  parents,  and  hopes  to  meet  them 
again,  that  part  cannot  die.  We  put  the  body  in 
the  ground,  and  we  love  to  come  to  the  place  where 
it  is  laid,  because  it  was  in  this  body  that  the  soul 
lived  when  we  knew  it ;  and  we  are  told  in  the 
Bible  that  this  body  shall  be  raised  up  again." 

"  Then,  sure,  I  shall  see  them  again?" 

"  Surely  you  will ;  and  all,  I  hope,  will  be  happy 
together." 

Judy  looked  for  a  few  moments  more  tranquil, 
and  she  laid  her  head  on  Emma's  lap  confidingly, 
as  if  she  had  known  her  all  her  life.  But  she  soon 
heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  said,  "How  can  they 
come  alive  out  of  the  ground  again  ?" 

"How? — that  I  can't  tell  you,  Anny;  but  He 
who  created  us  can  certainly  make  us  live  again. 
Did  you  never  read  the  story  of  Lazarus  ?" 

"  I  cannot  read." 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  that  Jesus  raised  Lazarus 
from  the  dead  ?" 

"  Sure,  and  Father  Burke  must  have  told  me, 
but  I  don't  mind  anything  now  but  them  that's 
gone." 

"But  do  you  not  sometimes  think  of  Jesus,  out 
Lord  and  "Saviour  ?" 

"  That  would  I,"  she  replied,  taking  from  her 
bosom  a  crucifix,  and  kissing  it,  and  faltering  and 
blushing ;  for,  though  Anny  was  very  ignorant,  her 
conscience  reproached  her  for  forgetting  everything 


MILL-HILL.  87 

bu\  her  losses.     "  Indeed,  miss,"  she  added,  "  I 
have  been  so  heart-full  of  trouble." 

"  He  who  sent  the  troubles,  my  poor  child,  sent 
them  as  messengers  to  you,  to  tell  you  of  His  power, 
and  His  love,  and  to  draw  you  near  to  Him." 

"  Miss  ?"  said  Anny,  not  at  all  understanding 
words  that,  to  an  instructed  child,  would  have  seemed 
very  plain. 

"  I  will  tell  you  the  story  of  Lazarus,  Anny  ;  and, 
when  you  hear  of  the  power  and  the  love  of  God 
shown  at  his  grave,  you  will  feel  more  willing  to 
trust  your  friends,  though  dead  to  you,  to  that 
power  and  love. 

"  There  is  a  place  called  Bethany,  about  two 
miles  from  Jerusalem,  the  city  of  the  Jews.  When 
Jesus  was  on  earth  there  lived  in  this  Bethany  a 
family  of  three  persons,  two  sisters  and  one  brother. 
They  were  Jesus's  friends,  and  he  loved  them. 
When  he  was  absent  from  them  he  knew  that  Laz 
arus  sickened  and  died,  and  he  determined  to  go 
to  Bethany.  And  when  Martha,  one  of  Lazarus's 
sisters,  heard  that  Jesus  was  coming,  she  went  out 
and  met  him,  and  afterward  came  her  sister  Mary 
too.  And  both,  knowing  how  many  sick  that  no. 
one  else  could  cure  Jesus  had  cured,  said  to  him, 
*  If  thou  hadst  been  here  my  brother  had  not  died  ;' 
and,  though  Lazarus  had  been  four  days  in  the 
grave,  Martha  had  faith  to  believe  that  Jesus  could 
restore  him  to  life;  for  she  said,  *  Even  now,  what- 
ever thou  shalt  ask  of  God,  God  will  give  it 
thee.'" 

"  Could  he  raise  him  from  the  dead— did  he  ?" 
asked  Anny,  eagerly. 


m  MILL-HILL. 

H  You  shall  hear.  They  went  to  the  grave,  and, 
while  Jesus  stood  there,  he  wept." 

f  And  why  did  he  so  ?  Sure  I  would  not  fret  if 
I  could  raise  up  Judy." 

''Because  you  think  only  of  yourself,  Anny. 
Jesus  thought  of  all  the  world.  His  heart  was  full 
of  compassion,  and  he  remembered  those  who, 
like  you  and  I,  had  to  be  separated  from  those  they 
best  love,  and,  with  bitter  tears,  lie  down  on  their 
graves." 

"  Have  you  buried  in  the  ground  all  your  peo- 
ple ?" 

"  All  my  own  family,  Anny." 

"  And  yet  ye  said  never  a  word  of  that,  but  spake 
the  kind  word  to  me." 

"  That  is  one  of  the  lessons,  Anny,  God  teaches 
us,  by  taking  away  our  friends — how  to  feel  for 
others,  and  how  to  speak  the  kind  word  they  need. 
Jesus  loved  Lazarus  as  friend  loves  friend,  and  he 
felt  how  much  those  must  suffer  who  are  separated 
from  their  friends.  But  he  had  something  to  do 
as  well  as  feel — so  have  we  all,  Anny.  His  work 
was  to  show  forth  the  power  of  God,  as  the  Bible 
says,  to  '  bring  life  and  immortality  to  light ;'  to 
show,  by  raising  Lazarusr  to  you,  Anny,  and  to 
many,  many,  who,  like  you,  ask  'how  the  dead 
can  come  alive  out  of  the  ground  again,'  that  all 
things  are  possible  to  the  power  of  God.  His 
power  is  his  glory,  because  it  is  used  for  the  good 
of  his  creatures.  Jesus  says  he  had  promised  to 
show  them  the  glory  of  God.  When  he  had  said 
that,  he  commanded  Lazarus  to  come  forth.  And 
he  came — the  brother  rose  and  stood  before  his 
sisters — the  dead  man  was   a   living   man  again 


MILL-HILL.  89 

among  his  friends.  If  Jesus  stood  here  now,  and 
told  you  he  could  raise  your  sister  from  the  dead, 
would  you  believe  him  1" 

"  Sure  would  I." 

"  And  do  you  not  believe  what  he  has  told  us, 
that  all  that  are  in  their  graves  shall  rise  again  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  do  believe  it." 

"*Then,  Anny,  when  those  are  taken  from  us  that 
we  love,  we  should  lay  to  heart  this  great  truth, 
that  we  shall  meet  again.  Instead  of  giving  our- 
selves up  to  sorrow,  we  must  try  to  use  well  every 
minute  of  this  life  that  we  feel  to  be  so  very  short. 
We  must  try  to  make  sisters  and  brothers  of  stran- 
gers, as  Christ  did,  by  loving  them,  and  doing  good 
to  them.  We  must  study  the  Bible,  the  word  of 
God,  and  endeavour  to  feel  and  to  do  as  that  teaches 
us  ;  if  we  do  all  this,  it  will  be  good  for  us  that  we 
have  been  afflicted." 

After  a  pause  of  a  few  moments  Anny  said, 
while  the  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks,  "  Sure  I  feel 
better  now  while  I'm  thinking  it's  God's  truth  we 
shall  all  meet  again ;  and  I'll  do  my  endeavours  to 
mind  all  ye've  said  to  me — but — but — " 

"  But  what,  Anny  ?" 

"  Och !  I  fear  I  shall  be  after  forgetting  this 
same  when  there's  none  to  mind  me  of  it — none  to 
spake  the  good  word  to  me,  and  many  bad  words 
is  it  1  hear  every  day." 

"  Are  not  the  people  you  live  with  good  people, 
Anny?" 

"  Truth  are  they — but  not  the  like  of  you,  miss. 
God  forgive  me  that  I  should  say  so,  for  didn't  Katy 
O'Neil  nurse  my  mother,  and  Robby,  and  Judy? 
H  2 


90  MILL-HILL. 

and  does  she  not  give  me  bread  from  the  same  loaf 
with  her  own  childer  ?" 

"  She  must  be  very  good  and  kind  in  her  way, 
then,  Anny,  though  she  may  not  know  how  to  teach 
you  just  as  I  do.  But,  after  all,  the  best  teaching 
is  good  actions.  The  Bible  says,  Anny,  4  be  kind 
one  to  another  ;'  but,  if  I  were  to  repeat  those  words 
a  hundred  times,  they  would  not  sink  so  deep  into 
your  heart  as  Mrs.  O'Neil's  kindness  to  you." 

"  That's  truth,  but — I  love  to  hear  ye  spake  the 
words ;  and,  if  I  could  live  with  the  like  of  you,  I 
would  not  wish  to  be  buried  up  in  the  gra\e  w? 
Judy." 

Emma's  heart  was  touched.  She  felt  a  great  in- 
terest in  the  forlorn  little  stranger.  When  Emma 
had  done  one  service  to  any  person,  she  always  felt 
a  desire  to  do  more.  She  thought  of  a  plan  for 
her ;  but,  as  it  depended  on  others  besides  herself, 
she  deemed  it  most  prudent  not  to  excite  any  ex- 
pectations, and  she  merely  said,  "  You  and  I  belong 
to  one  family.  We  are  both  orphans,  and  orphans 
are  God's  peculiar  family.  Come,  now,  I  will  walk 
down  to  Mrs.  O'Neil's  with  you,  and  next  Sunday 
afternoon  we  will  try  to  meet  at  Judy's  grave 
again." 

Anny  once  more  kissed  the  sods,  and  shed  a  fresh 
flood  of  tears ;  she  then  wiped  her  eyes,  and,  taking 
Emma's  offered  hand,  returned  to  the  shanty  with 
a  far  less  lonely  feeling  than  she  had  come  from 
it.  Emma  had  never  before  seen  the  inside  of  a 
shanty  ;  and,  though  she  was  well  acquainted  with 
the  poorest  abodes  of  our  native  people,  she  was 
astonished  to  see  so  many  human  beings  hale  and 
thriving  in  such  a  habitation.     There  was  no  table, 


MILL-HILL.  91 

no  chair  save  one  broken  one;  boards  fixed  on 
blocks  served  to  eat  and  sit  on.  On  her  first  sur- 
vey Emma  concluded  there  was  no  bed,  but  a 
second  view  led  her  to  believe  that  a  heap  of  rub- 
bish in  one  corner  of  the  apartment  had  served 
as  a  bed,  and  that  there  poor  Judy  had  died.  In 
an  opposite  corner  lay  a  bushel  of  potatoes.  A 
junk  of  pork  and  half  a  newly-killed  calf  hung 
beside  the  door,  while  a  bountiful  mess  was  fry- 
ing, and  Dame  O'Neil  was  stirring  up  a  cake  to 
bake  before  the  fire.  She  first  perceived  the  ap- 
proach of  Anny  with  her  new  friend.  "  Be  quiet, 
Mike,  and  hold  your  tongues,  men,  will  ye  ?"  she 
said,  to  her  husband  and  some  half  dozen  men, 
who,  with  a  jug  of  liquor  beside  them,  were  all 
talking  in  the  same  breath,  "  the  lady  is  coming 
with  Anny  Ryan.  Och,  Rose,  take  the  babby's 
hands  out  of  the  molasses.  Biddy,  move  aside  the 
pan  of  milk  that  bars  the  door,  will  ye  ?  The  Lord 
above  bless  ye,  miss,"  to  Emma;  "ye've  had  trouble 
enough  with  her  ?" 

"  Oh  no,"  replied  Emma,  entering  quietly,  and 
accepting  with  a  kind  look  of  acknowledgment 
the  seat  offered  her ;  M  Anny  is  trying  her  best  to 
feel  and  act  right,  and  that's  all  we  can  any  of  us 
do,  Mrs.  O'Neil." 

"  That's  true,  indeed,  in  trouble  and  out  of  it." 

"  She  tells  me,  Mrs.  O'Neil,  that  you  have  been 
very  kind  to  her  and  hers,  and  now  she'll  find  it 
a  comfort  to  do  for  you." 

"  Lord  help  the  poor  child,  miss,  if  she'll  stop 
fretting  it's  all  I  ask  of  her.  She's  always  ready 
to  do  little  jobs  for  me ;  it's  enough  I  have  to  do, 
my  oldest  being  boys — make  a  bow  to  the  lady, 
Pat — and  no  help  like  to  me." 


92  MILL-HILL. 

"  But  rather  a  hinderance,  I  should  think,  Mrs, 
O'Neil.  Here's  a  school  for  boys  near  you,  kept 
by  a  very  good  young  man,  where  you  can  send 
those  two  little  boys  for  twenty-five  cents  a  week." 

"  Do  you  hear,  Mike  ?"  asked  Katy  O'Neil. 

"And  where's  the  twenty -five  cents  to  come 
from  ?"  answered  Mike,  "  when  we  are  all  fed  the 
week  through,  six  of  us,  besides  Anny  Ryan,  that 
shall  have  her  full  male  if  the  little  reg'lars  go 
starved." 

"  Oh,  there  is  no  starving  in  this  land,  my  good 
friend,  for  the  family  of  a  stout  working  man  with 
a  busy  wife  at  home.  But  the  mind  must  be  fed 
as  well  as  the  body,  or  it  will  not  thrive  and  grow. 
These  are  bright-looking  boys  of  yours.  They 
will  soon  learn  to  read,  write,  and  keep  accounts, 
if  you  will  give  them  a  chance.  Is  there  nothing 
for  which  you  spend  twenty-five  cents  a  week  that 
you  c^n  as  well  do  without  <" 

"It's  the  liquor  you  mane,  miss,"  said  Mike, 
touching  the  jug  with  his  foot ;  "  troth,  it's  not  I 
that  cares  for  it ;  but,  when  the  other  boys  drink,  I 
must  do  my  part." 

"  Perhaps  the  other  boys  have  no  children,  and 
they  cannot  have  the  pleasure  you  will  have  in 
giving  up  drink  for  the  good  of  your  children.  I 
see  you  love  those  little  fellows — I  see  it' by  the 
way  they  hang  round  you ;  and  there,  the  baby,  as 
if  to  make  my  words  good,  is  stretching  out  his 
arms  to  you.  Surely,  surely,  Mr.  O'Neil,  those 
that  have  children  to  play  with  when  they  come 
in  from  their  work  don't  need  a  drink  to  cheer 
them." 

"  And  that's  true,  miss." 


MILL-HILL.  93 

"And  then,  when  Sunday  comes,  it's  good  to 
have  a  store  of  pleasant  thoughts ;  and  what  can 
be  pleasanter  than  thinking  that,  instead  of  drink- 
ing up  the  money  you  have  worked  hard  for,  you 
have  been  laying  it  up,  as  it  were,  in  these  little 
boys'  heads  and  hearts,  to  make  them  richer  for 
this  world  ;  and,  it  may  be,  Mr.  O'Neil,  for  the  world 
to  come.  And,  besides,  ought  you  not  to  do  this 
to  show  your  gratitude  to  Him  who  gave  you  your 
children  ? — his  very  best  gifts." 

"  Thank  you,  miss,  thank  you,"  replied  O'Neil, 
stroking  his  boys'  heads  and  looking  down,  much 
pleased  with  Emma's  proposition,  but  not  quite 
prepared  to  accede  to  it. 

"  Good-night  to  you  all,"  said  Emma,  and  "good- 
night to  you,  Anny.  Don't  put  your  apron  to  your 
eyes  again,  my  child;  I  will  be  sure  to  come  and 
see  you  before  many  days,  and  then,  Mrs.  O'Neil, 
you  can  give  me  your  husband's  answer.  Per- 
haps," she  added,  looking  at  O'NeiPs  companions, 
"  some  of  your  friends,  whose  families  are  not  yet 
here,  may  have  children  they  would  like  to  send 
to  the  school." 

"  I  thank  ye,  miss,"  said  one.  "  And  ye'll  be  as 
sure  to  find  children  where  there  is  a  shanty,  as 
bees  where  there's  a  hive,"  said  another.  Anny 
followed  to  the  door.  "How  many  days  will  it 
be  ?"  she  asked. 

"Very,  very  few,  and  do  not  forget  our  talk  at 
Judy's  grave." 

"  Forget !  I'll  forget  everything  else,  and  mind 
nothing  but  Judy,  and  all  ye  said  about  her ;"  and 
she  kissed  Emma's  gown  as  she  stepped  from  the 
door,  and,  murmuring  prayers  and  blessings,  sunk 


94  MILL-HILL. 

down  on  the  ground,  and  neither  moved  foot  nor 
eye  till  Emma  turned  the  road  that  led  up  the  hill 
and  was  quite  out  of  sight.  As  soon  as  she  was 
out  of  hearing,  one  of  the  men  within  said, "  There's 
not  many  the  like  of  that  young  woman."  "  Her 
heart's  blood  is  as  warm  as  if  she  were  born  at 
home  in  old  Ireland,"  said  another.  "And  did 
not  she  plade  for  my  stranger  boys  as  if  they 
were  her  own  people's  children!"  asked  Mike 
O'Neil. 

"  Troth  did  she,"  answered  his  wife,  who,  by 
this  time,  was  setting  a  smoking  supper  on  the 
board;  "  and,  if  you'll  take  my  mind,  Mike,  and  all 
of  you,  it's  just  this  :  We'll  get  a  blessing  to  us  if 
we  listen  to  what  she  said,  for  she  spake  for  us 
and  our  children,  and  not  for  herself,  and  by  that 
same  we  may  know  the  word  came  from  above ; 
and,  I  ask  ye,  does  she  not  look  fit  to  send  of  the 
Almighty's  errands,  so  innocent  and  feeling-like, 
for  others,  mind  ye,  and  not  for  herself  V* 


M  I  L  L-H  I  L  L. 

(PART  SECOND.) 


"  LOOK   NOT    EVERY  MAN    ON   HIS    OWN    THINGS,  BUT 
EVERY    MAN   ALSO    ON    THE    THINGS    OF    OTHERS." 

Perhaps  some  of  my  young  readers  would  like 
to  know  what  plan  it  was  Emma  Maxwell  had  in 
her  head  for  the  poor  little  orphan  stranger,  Aniiy 
Ryan. 

Sunday  evening,  through  the  country  parts  of 
New-England,  is  generally  appropriated  to  quiet 
social  pleasures ;  and,  the  evening  that  followed 
Emma's  interview  with  the  O'Neils,  there  being  a 
fine  moonlight,  Emma's  uncle  proposed  a  drive 
down  to  Vernon  village  to  call  on  some  of  their 
friends.  Emma  said  this  was  just  what  she  want- 
ed very  much  to  do ;  and  when  she  returned,  her 
aunt  Huntly,  who  knew  her  object  in  going  to  the 
village  had  been  to  find  a  place  for  Anny,  asked, 
"  Well,  what  luck,  Emma  1  was  Mrs.  Bement  at 
home  F 

"  Yes,  aunt ;  but  Mrs.  Bement  says  she  finds  it 
cheapest,  in  the  long  run,  to  have  grown-up  help." 

"'Well,  that's  a  reason  I  should  expect  from  the 
richest  woman  in  the  village.     And  Mrs.  Brown  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Brown  says  she  has  had  so  many  little 


96  MILL-HILL. 

girls,  and  their  mothers  and  friends  are  always  in- 
terfering, that  she  is  tired  of  it.  I  acknowledged 
this  was  a  reasonable  objection,  and  said  I  thought 
it  very  wrong  for  mothers  and  friends  to  interfere 
where  a  girl  had  a  good  place  ;  '  But,'  said  I, '  this 
poor  child  has  neither  mother  nor  friends.'  *  Oh, 
then,'  she  said,  '  that  was  reason  enough  for  not 
taking  her,  for  what  could  she  do  with  her  in  case 
she  got  sick,  or  she  did  not  like  her,'  &c,  &c.  So 
I  went  to  Mrs.  Allen's.  Mrs.  Allen  said  she  did 
not  think  it  a  good  plan,  with  her  large  family  of 
children,  to  take  one  into  the  kitchen.  I  told  her 
I  thought  it  gave  an  opportunity  for  the  cultivation 
of  many  virtues  that  could  only  be  brought  out  by 
such  circumstances.  '  Oh,'  she  said,  '  she  had 
plenty  of  opportunities  now,  and  I  must  excuse  her, 
but  she  could  not  think  of  it.'  So  on  J  went  to 
Mrs.  Rawley's,  who,  as  she  has  no  children,  I 
hoped  would  be  glad  to  shelter  this  poor  lone  thing. 
But  no  ;  '  There's  nobody  but  my  husband  and  If 
she  said,  '  and  we  love  to  live  just  so,  and  it  is  a 
great  chore  to  bring  up  a  child  as  she  should  be.' 
I  ventured  to  say  it  was  a  great  happiness  too,  but 
she  answered  that  I  did  not  know  anything  about 
the  troubles  of  housekeeping ;  so  I  left  her,  and 
went  to  Mrs.  Tyler's.  Mrs.  Tyler  said  there  was 
not  any  profit  in  taking  a  child  ;  '  You  know,  Miss 
Emma,'  she  said,  '  we  took  Justyn  Hill  at  your  re- 
quest, and  he  broke  and  destroyed,  in  three  months, 
what  would  pay  half  the  wages  of  a  man." 
"  I  hope  you  stopped  there,  Emma." 
"  No  ;  I  applied  to  Mrs.  Hall.  She,  too,  made 
an  excuse  of  poor  Justyn,  and  half  reproached  me 
with  having  induced  her  to  take  him.     I  ventured, 


MILL-HILL.  97 

as  she  is  a  professor  of  religion,  to  say  that  we 
should  not  be  wearied  in  well  doing ;  but  she  said 
she  had  set  her  foot  down  never  to  undertake  with 
another  child." 

"  And  we  all  know,  Emma,  if  Mrs.  Hall  sets  her 
foot  down,  she  won't  take  it  up  even  for  an  angel's 
bidding.     I  suppose  you  have  quite  given  up  ?" 

"Not  quite,  aunt."  Emma  fixed  her  eyes  on 
her  aunt  with  a  look  she  half  understood. 

"  You  surely,  Emma,  can't  expect — " 

"  No,  aunt,  not  expect,  but  hope" — Emma  paused 
and  blushed,  and  was  afraid  to  proceed,  lest  her 
hopes  should  vanish. 

Mrs.  Huntly,  on  whom  her  trembling  hopes  de- 
pended, was  a  good  woman  ;  but  there  are  different 
kinds  and  degrees  of  goodness,  and  hers  was  infe- 
rior to  Emma's.  She  was  a  good  wife  and  good 
mother  ;  but,  quite  taken  up  with  the  prosperity  and 
happiness  of  her  own  family,  she  would  have  per- 
ceived no  duty  beyond  it  but  for  Emma,  who  saw 
a  brother  and  a  sister  in  every  needy  member  of 
the  human  family.  Two  years  before,  Emma  had 
persuaded  her  to  take  Caroline  Hill  into  her  fam- 
ily, Caroline  was  one  of  Emma's  Sunday-schol- 
ars. Emma  saw  she  had  good  faculties.  She 
had  the  misery  of  having  bad  parents,  and  had 
been  dreadfully  neglected.  Emma  believed  she 
might  be  reclaimed,  and  succeeded  in  inducing  her 
aunt  to  make  the  experiment,  by  setting  before  her 
the  happiness  of  saving  a  young  creature  from  de- 
struction, and  making  her  a  useful  member  of  so- 
ciety. "  We  are  all,"  Emma  said,  "  in  some 
sense,  God's  shepherds,  and  bound  to  look  after 
the  wanderers  from  the  flock." 
I 


98  MILL-HILL. 

Caroline,  in  Mrs.  Huntly's  virtuous  and  orderly- 
family,  had  improved  rapidly;  but  one  fault  she 
had,  that  neither  Emma's  admonitions  nor  her  ex- 
ample had  yet  cured.  She  was  selfish.  Selfish- 
ness checks  the  growth  of  every  virtue,  and  casts 
a  shade  over  every  charm.  She  became  industri- 
ous, efficient,  good-mannerly,  and  orderly ;  but  no 
one  warmly  loved  her,  and  reason  enough  it  was 
that  she  was  selfish.  "  Some  are  naturally  so," 
thought  Emma,  who  always  tried  to  find  a  reason 
to  palliate  every  one's  faults,  "  and  poor  Caroline 
has  been  so  used  to  scrambling  for  everything  she 
got,  in  a  disorderly  and  stinted  family,  that  it  will 
take  a  great  while  for  her  to  learn  not  to  think  first 
and  chiefly  for  herself."  Miss  Emma  waited  pa- 
tiently "  a  great  while,"  and  then  she  concluded 
that  nothing  but  the  grace  of  God  implanted  in 
Caroline's  heart  would  make  her  imitate  Christ's 
example,  and  seek  first  the  good  of  others,  or,  rath- 
er, make  her  own  depend  on  that  of  others.  But 
we  return  to  the  conversation.  "  You  cannot  sure- 
ly hope,  Emma,  that  I  will  take  another  child  into 
our  house.  If  there  were  no  other  objection,  Car- 
oline Hill  is  not  a  girl  ever  to  get  on  peaceably 
with  another  child — she  is  so  selfish." 

"  Aunt,  I  think  nothing  would  do  Caroline  so 
much  good  as  being  obliged  to  give  up,  and  having 
the  example  of  a  good,  generous-tempered  child." 

"  Oh,  Emma,  you  always  see  some  encourage- 
ment for  trying  to  do  good ;  but,  my  dear,  there  is 
no  use  in  talking  about  this  ;  I  can't  think  of  un- 
dertaking it ;  in  justice  to  my  own  children,  Emma, 
we  ought  not  to  take  another  child  to  support,  and 
your  uncle  would  think  so  too." 


MILL-HILL.  99 

"  And  so  do  I  think,  aunt.  You  have  only- 
guessed  my  plan,  you  have  not  heard  it  all.  My 
school  pays  all  my  expenses,  and  gives  me  fifty 
dollars  a  year  to  lay  aside — I  am  growing  rich, 
aunt.  Besides  my  school,  the  odd  jobs  of  tailoring 
I  do  (oh  how  many  times  I  have  thanked  you  for 
teaching  me  this  business !)  bring  me  in  enough 
to  supply  all  my  little  wants."  The  most  pressing 
of  Emma's  wants  was  the  want  to  supply  others. 
"  Now  I  can  pay  Anny  Ryan's  board,  and  clothe 
her.  This,  to  be  sure,  is  nothing  in  comparison 
of  your  trouble  ;  but  I  know,  aunt,  you  will  feel 
paid  for  that  if  we  make  good  housewives  and 
good  sempstresses  of  these  two  girls.  They  can 
work  in  the  house  and  go  to  school  alternately. 
You  will  teach  them  housework,  and  I  will  teach 
them  sewing  and  tailoring.  Will  you  consider  of 
it,  and  talk  with  uncle  about  it  ?" 

"  Uncle"  was  the  kindest  of  men,  Mrs.  Huntly 
the  most  reasonable  of  women;  and  Emma  had 
leave  on  Monday  morning  to  go  down  to  the 
O'Neils,  and  fetch  home  Anny  Ryan.  Emma 
went  early,  desirous  to  ascertain  in  season  O'Neil's 
decision  in  relation  to  his  boys.  Katy  O'Neil  met 
her  with  a  disturbed  and  perplexed  countenance. 
"It's  Mike  that's  freely  consented,  with  many 
thanks  to  you,  miss,"  she  said,  "  and  now  it's  the 
boys  that's  bothering.  Johnny  says  the  Yankee 
boys  will  laugh  at  him  because  he  has  yet  never  a 
hat  to  his  head,  and  poor  Pat's  coat  is  down  to  his 
heels  quite,  being  gived  to  him  by  a  lady  that  took 
pity  on  him,  he  having  none.  I  tell  them  they  are 
foolish  and  wicked  besides ;  but  you  know,  miss,  it 


100  MILL-HILL. 

takes  a  stouter  heart  than  a  child's  to  bide  being 
laughed  at." 

"  The  laughers  are  the  most  foolish  and  wicked," 
replied  Emma  ;  "  and,  as  soon  as  they  learn  to  feel 
for  others,  they  will  leave  off  laughing.  Patrick, 
don't  you  wish  to  learn  to  read  ?"  Pat  hung  down 
his  head  bashfully,  and  muttered  a  "  Yes,  miss." 
"  And  if  you  had  the  money,  Patrick,  how  much 
would  you  be  willing  to  pay  for  it  ?" 

i'Nor  Pat  nor  myself  is  it,"  spoke  up  little  John- 
ny, a  far  brighter  boy  than  his  brother,  "  that  will 
ever  own  the  money  it's  worth." 

"  Then,  surely,  it  is  worth  bearing  being  laughed 
at?" 

"  But  it's  not  we  will  bear  it — we'll  tache  'em 
to  laugh  !"  And  Johnny  doubled  his  fist,  to  show 
how  the  lesson  was  to  be  given. 

"Ah,  Johnny,  my  friend,  we  allow  no  such 
teaching  here.  Boys  that  fight  out  their  little 
quarrels  will  choose  Lynch  law  when  they  are 
men.  If  a  boy  injures  you,  you  must  try  and  make 
him  your  friend,  and  then  he  will  never  injure  you 
again." 

"  But  sure,  miss,  I  should  flog  him  first,  and 
make  him  my  friend  after." 

"No,  no,  Johnny,  the  flogging  makes, an  easy- 
job  a  very  hard  one  ;  but  we  will  talk  of  this  some 
other  time.  Now  go  with  me  to  Mrs.  Norton's, 
who  lives  in  the  white  house  on  the  hillside ;  if 
you  will  work  in  her  garden  to-day,  she  will  give 
you  an  old  cap  of  her  boy's." 

"  Thank  the  lady,"  said  Katy  O'Neil,  "  and  tell 
her  sure  you'll  do  it."  Johnny  looked  pleased  and 
grateful,  the  best  thanks  Miss  Emma  could  have. 


MILL-HILL.  101 

u.  Now,  Patrick,"  she  said,  "  try  on  your  coat,  and  I 
will  see  what  can  be  done  with  it."  Pat  put  it  on, 
and  a  droll  figure  he  was.  The  collar  reached  the 
crown  of  his  head,  his  hands  were  buried  in  the 
sleeves,  and  the  skirts  almost  touched  his, heels. 
His  mother  laughed,  Johnny  shouted,  and  even 
Miss  Emma  smiled.  But  this  did  not  anger  Pat- 
rick. He  felt,  though  he  could  not  have  explained  it, 
the  difference  between  a  laugh  of  sympathy  and  a 
laugh  of  derision.  "  I  do  not  much  wonder,  Pat- 
rick," said  Emma, "  that  you  do  not  wish  to  wear  this 
to  school,  but  it  is  an  easy  matter  for  me  to  make 
it  fit  you.  If  I  give  you  my  time  you  must  pay  me 
with  yours.  ,  Time  is  money,  you  know — almost 
all  the  money  we  have  at  Mill-hill.  I  have  a  bun- 
dle to  be  carried  two  miles  from  here.  If  you  will 
carry  it  I  will  alter  your  coat."  Patrick  joyfully 
acceded  to  the  proposal.  "  You  see,  Mrs.  O'Neil," 
continued  Emma,  "  time  may  be  turned  into  money. 
To  be  sure  there  must  be  labour  too — we  must  put 
a  stamp  on  money,  you  know,  or  it  will  not  pass." 

"  Sure,  and  it's  truth,  miss.  Where  we  can  get 
plenty  of  work  it  is  so.  Well,  it's  good  to  be 
larned ;  Mike  nor  me  never  would  have  thought  of 
that,  and  I  feel  the  richer  already  for  thinking  of 
it." 

While  this  conversation  was  going  on,  Anny 
Ryan,  who,  at  Emma's  approach  to  the  shanty, 
had  been  the  first  to  see  and  spring  forward,  began 
to  fear  she  was  overlooked.  She  retreated,  step 
by  step,  till  she  sunk  down  on  the  floor  behind  a 
big  chest,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  apron  to 
hide  her  tears.  But  Anny  was  mistaken  ;  and  never 
did  any  face  change  more  completely  than  hers 
12 


102  MILL-HILL. 

when  Emma,  taking  her  hand,  announced  her  plan 
for  her,  and  obtained  Katy  O'Neil's  prompt  acqui- 
escence. A  happier  child  there  never  was  than 
Anny  Ryan.  Severed  from  all  her  own  people, 
she  clun'g  to  Emma  as  a  creeping  plant  that  has 
been  torn  away  from  its  support,  and  lies  ready  to 
die  on  the  ground  ;  when  some  kind  hand  raises  and 
props  it,  it  stretches  out  its  tendrils,  and  clings  to 
its  new  supporter  as  lovingly  as  if  it  had  first  grown 
there. 

"  I  wonder  if  Irish  Anny  is  to  sleep  with  me  ?" 
asked  Caroline,  the  first  night  of  Anny's  coming  to 
Mrs.  Huntly's. 

"  Before  I  answer  you,"  replied  Emma,  "  I  beg 
you  not  to  call  her  Irish  Anny  again.  She  is  not 
the  worse  for  being  Irish,  and  you  should  not  use 
the  word  as  if  she  were.  Yes,  you  are  to  sleep 
with  Anny.  Why  do  you  look  so  dissatisfied  ?  is 
she  not  clean  ?" 

"  For  once  in  her  life,  I  suppose  she  is — any- 
body might  be  clean  if  Miss  Emma  washed  them 
in  a  tub  of  warm  water,  and  dressed  them  in  new' 
clothes  from  head  to  foot !" 

"  Oh,  Caroline,  don't  you  remember  when  I  did 
the  very  same  thing  for  you  ?  and  don't  you  remem- 
ber the  fable  you  learned,  only  last  Sunday,  about 
the  butterfly  that  forgot  it  had  been  a  worm  ?" 

Caroline  hung  her  head.  She  was  thoroughly 
ashamed ;  but  she  was  not  ashamed  an  hour  after, 
when  Mrs.  Huntly,  who  had  been  baking,  gave 
each  of  the  girls  a  cake,  to  say  to  Anny,  "  It's  just 
half  as  big  as  I  commonly  have ;  that  will  be  al- 
ways the  way  now  ;  I  shall  have  just  half  I  used 
to  have  of  everything!"     Nor  was  she  ashamed. 


MILL-HILL.  103 

when  she  undressed,  to  throw  herself  into  the  mid- 
dle of  the  bed ;  and  when  Anny,  quite  at  a  loss, 
asked,  "Which  side  shall  I  sleep?"  she  was  not 
ashamed  to  answer,  "  It's  all  on£  to  me — I've  got 
the  place  I  always  have." 

Anny  thought  of  Judy,  and  how  they  had  slept 
lovingly  in  one  another's  arms ;  and,  as  she  laid 
herself  down  on  the  very  edge  of  the  bed,  she 
thought,  "  Would  not  the  cold  bare  earth  be  softer 
and  warmer  with  Judy's  arm  about  me,  than  this 
feather  bed  and  blankets  ?  Oh,  it's  hard  lying  be- 
side one  that  seems  to  have  no  love,  but  rather  hate, 
to  me — to  me  that  never  did  harm  to  her  or  hers. 
God  forgive  her !  and  God  forgive  my  murmuring 
when  he  has  covered  my  head  with  the  same  roof 
that's  over  Miss  Emma's  !" 

Thus,  Anny's  good  feelings  naturally  turning  from 
what  was  hard  to  what  was  merciful  in  her  lot, 
she  brushed  off  the  tears  that  Caroline's  unkindness 
had  called  to  her  eyes,  and  soon  fell  into  a  sweet 
sleep,  from  which  she  was  awakened  by  Caroline's 
tossing  and  groans.  In  reply  to  Anny's  question 
of  "  What  ails  ye  T"  she  said,  "  My  head  is  aching 
so,  and  I  am  so  hot  and  thirsty !" 

u  It's  a  cup  of  cold  water  you  are  wanting,  and 
sure  will  I  fetch  it  for  you." 

"  If  you  just  would,  Anny — I'll  do  as  much  for 
you ;  but'  maybe  you  are  afraid  to  go  out  at  night," 
she  added,  touched  \>y  Anny's  alacrity. 

"  Afraid !  have  not  I  gone  afar  into  the  wood  to 
bring  cold  water  from  the  spring  for  poor  Judy, 
when  there  were  neither  moon  nor  stars,  let  alone 
the  sun.  that  never  shines  at  night  when  it's  want- 
ed!" 


104  MILL-HILL. 

"  "What  should  I  have  done  if  she  had  not  slept 
with  me  f  thought  Caroline.  Anny  soon  returned 
with  the  water ;  and,  while  the  feverish  girl  was  ea- 
gerly swallowing  it,  she  took  something  from  her 
drawer,  and  saying,  "  I'll  be  here  in  a  crack,"  she 
again  ran  down  stairs.  When  she  returned,  Caro- 
line saw,  by  the  light  of  the  full  moon,  that  her 
face  was  full  of  meaning.  "Did  anything  scare 
you?"  she  asked. 

"  No,  no ;  wait  a  bit,  and  I'll  tell  you."  Anny  went 
to  the  window,  and  stood  there  for  a  minute  gazing 
out,  and  then,  as  if  relieved,  she  drew  a  long  breath, 
and  said,  "  He  has  turned  the  corner,  poor  lad !  it's 
my  heart  that  always  aches  for  them  that's  afraid 
of  daylight."  Poor  Anny,  she  remembered  seeing 
her  own  kindred  at  home  driven  by  poverty  and 
oppression  to  deeds  that  made  them  steal  about  at 
night  to  hide  from  the  eye  of  justice.  "  You  must 
know,  Caroline,"  she  said,  returning  to  the  bedside, 
"  that,  just  as  I  was  filling  the  cup  for  ye,  a  lad 
taller  than  you  started  out  from  behind  the  house, 
and  asked  for  something  to  eat.  Och  !  he  looked 
famished,  and  ghostlike,  and  awful !" 

"  Did  not  you  scream  ?" 

"  And  what  for  would  I  be  after  screaming  1  He 
signed -to  me  to  be  quiet  with  his  ringer  on  his  lip ; 
he  was  as  white  as  the  sheet  over  ye,  and  his  voice 
shook  like  a  whipped  child's.  He  said  he  was 
drinking  from  the  bucket  when  he.  heard  me  com- 
ing, and  he  begged  for  just  a  morsel  to  eat,  and  I 
told  him  would  he  stay  a  bit  1  Good  luck  it  was 
for  him  that  I  saved  the  cake  she  gave  me  to  fetch 
to  Biddy  O'Neil,  for  I  did  not  know  where  in  the 


MILL-HILL.  105 

house  to  look  for  food,  let  alone  that  I  would  not 
take  it  without  lave." 

"  Did  you  bolt  the  door  while  you  came  up  for 
the  cake  ?     My  cloak  hangs  just  inside." 

'*  Och  !  Car'line,  you  would  never  be  after  think- 
ing of  your  cloak  if  ye'd  seen  him,  he  looked  so 
eaten  up  with  trouble.  I  asked  him  was  he  sick. 
He  shook  his  head,  and  the  tears  came.  I  asked 
him  was  it  his  people  were  all  dead ;  and  he  an- 
swered would  I  tell  him  where  the  Hills  lived 
now." 

"  The  Hills  /"  echoed  Caroline. 

"  Sure  it  was  the  Hills  ;  but  when  I  told  him  I 
was  a  stranger  here,  and  knew  nobody,  but  I  would 
ask  her  that  was  sleeping  with  me,  he  shook  his 
head  again,  and  thanked  me,  and  turned  awa*yi:" 

Caroline  rose  and  leaned  on  her  elbow ;  "  What 
coloured  hair  had  he  1"  she  asked. 

"  Black — black  as  yours,  and  curled  like  yours, 
but  matted  like." 

Caroline  sunk  back  on  her  pillow  and  groaned. 
After  a  short  silence  she  said,  "  Come,  Anny,  jump 
into  bed ;  you  shall  have  a  fair  half  this  time  ;  and 
please  say  nothing  of  having  been  up  in  the  night. 
Mrs.  Huntly  will  say  I  brought  the  sickness  on 
myself,  for  I  ate  a  hearty  supper  of  cucumbers 
and  cheese,  and  so  on,  and  afterward  ttoe  hot  cake 
— -that  it  was  that  sickened  me." 

"  Not  that  same  was  it,  Car'line,  honey  ?  My 
mother  always  told  Judy  and  me,  if  we  got  a  sweet 
bit,  and  did  not  share  it,  it  was  bad  luck.  It  was 
not  sharing  the  cake  that  made  it  heavy  on  your 
stomach,  Car'line."  By  how  many  little  obscure 
rills  are  the  waters  of  life  distributed ! 


106  MILL-HILL. 

Caroline  slept  off  her  fever.  When  she  rose 
she  again  begged  Anny  to  say  nothing  of  it,  and 
•by  no  means  to  let  out  a  word  of  the  meeting  at  the 
well,  even  to  Miss  Emma.  All  day  Caroline  ap- 
peared sad,  fluttered,  and  anxious.  She  was  often 
at  the  window  looking  down  the  road  ;  if  any  one 
knocked  at  the  outer  door,  she  started,  and  her  "col- 
our changed.  Nothing,  however,  extraordinary 
happened,  and  the  next  day  and  the  next  came  and 
went  as  usual  at  the  Huntlys,  all  performing  their 
tasks  with  order  and  fidelity.  Still  some  time 
elapsed  before  Caroline  recovered  her  usual  tran- 
quillity. She  had  good  reason  for  anxiety.  Car- 
oline had  a  brother  Justyn  some  two  years  older 
than  herself.  His  parents  suffered  him  to  loiter 
about,  Sometimes  doing  a  hard  day's  work  with  his 
father,  and  the  next  day  swinging  on  the  gate,  or 
doing  little  odd  jobs  that  unfitted  him  for  regular 
employment.  Emma  Maxwell  interested  herself 
for  him,  and,  after  convincing  his  parents  of  the 
importance  of  getting  a  place  for  him,  she  procured 
one.  His  temper  was  good,  and  his  disposition 
kind ; .  but  his  bad  habits  soon  exhausted  his  em- 
ployer's patience,  and  Emma  had  to  look  for  a 
new  place  for  him.  Again  and  again  this  hap- 
pened ;  and  at  last,  when  he  was  well  placed  with 
some  good  did  people,  who  kindly  bore  with  his 
faults  in  the  hope  of  curing  them,  he  became  dis- 
satisfied, and  accepted  an  offer  of  employment  in 
the  western  part  of  the  State  of  New- York.  He 
had  been  heard  from  repeatedly,  but  he  was  always 
changing  places,  and,  of  course,  never  going  ahead. 
Caroline  was  almost  sure  that  the  person  at  the 
well  was  her  brother  Justyn.     She  feared  he  had 


MILL-HILL.  107 

been  guilty  of  something  that  made  concealment 
important  to  him.  Her  conscience  bade  her  go 
home,  and  inquire  into  the  trouble  in  which  her 
family  might  be ;  but  Caroline  was  too  selfish  to 
obey  that  law,  "  Bear  ye  one  another's  burdens." 
Her  family  was  the  poorest  and  lowest  in  Vernon. 
Her  condition  was  now  much  elevated  above  theirs, 
and,  instead  of  trying  to  raise  them,  instead  of  ma- 
king the  favours  she  had  received  "  go  round,"  she 
shunned  her  parents,  brothers,  and  sisters  ;  she 
could  not  bear  to  be  reminded  that  they  were  hers. 
There  is  too  much  of  this  selfish  pride  among  us. 
It  is  unchristian  everywhere ;  in  our  land,  where 
the  only  real  distinctions  are  knowledge  and  good- 
ness, it  is  a  mark  of  ignorance  and  silliness  for  the 
girl  that  works  in  her  own  father's  house  to  keep 
aloof  from  the  respectable  domestic  that  performs 
the  same  labour  in  another  man's  ;  for  the  factory 
girl  or  the  tailor's  apprentice  to  pass  her  old  ac- 
quaintance and  schoolmate  on  the  other  side.  The 
one  spins  or  sews,  and  the  other  sweeps,  or,  per- 
haps, cooks  and  washes  for  her  living.  But  most 
of  all  disgraceful  is  it  when  the  duties  imposed  by 
Him  who  has  set  us  in  families  are  violated,  and 
pride  and  selfishness  sunder  what  God  hath  joined 
together. 

But  to  return  to  Caroline :  after  the  practical 
lesson  she  had  from  Anny  on  the  night  of  her  ill- 
ness, she  was  for  some  days  far  more  amiable. 
It  was  not  long,  however,  before  she  returned  to 
her  usual  selfish  ways.  "  Why  can't  Anny  sweep 
the  dwelling-room  !"  she  would  say*  <;  1  can't  bear, 
to  leave  my  sewing."  "  I  should  think  Anny 
might  clean  the  knives  ;  it  is  such  hateful  work  " 


108  MILL-HILL. 

"  That's  my  place,  Anny"  (if  Anny  by  any  chance 
got  the  pleasantest  seat  in  Miss  Emma's  workroom) ; 
"  I  always  sit  there."  "  Miss  Emma,  mayn't  Anny 
bite  off  her  threads ;  I  don't  want  her  to  use  my 
scissors?"  "  I  don't  think  it's  fair  for  Anny  to  go 
down  to  O'Neil's,  and  leave  me  all  the  chores  to 
do."  "  I  don't  see  why  Anny  need  to  have  half 
the  drawers  ;  she  has  not  half  so  many  clothes  as 
I  have  ;"  and  once  when  she  muttered,  "  I  have  not 
had  a  real  big  bit  of  pie  since  Anny  came  here," 
Emma  Maxwell  said,  "  Mrs.  Huntly,  be  kind  enough 
to  give  Caroline  a  larger  piece  than  any  one  else, 
and  I  wiU  share  mine  with  Anny !" 

Caroline's  selflshnees,  of  course,  greatly  aug- 
mented the  trouble  of  having  the  two  girls  in  the 
family;  and,  if  Mrs.  Huntly  had  not  taken  them 
more  for  their  good  than  her  own,  she  would  cer- 
tainly have  dismissed  one  of  them  ;  but  Mrs.  Huntly 
was  acting  with  a  religious  purpose,  and  she  was 
forbearing;  and  there  was  no  exhausting  Emma 
Maxwell's  patience  in  wisdom  and  well-doing. 
My  young  friends,  imitate  her  example — imitate 
the  sweet  temper  and  generosity  of  little  Anny 
Ryan,  and  you  will  realize  how  much  better  it  is 
to  cure  the  faults  of  others  than  to  punish  them ! 

The  month  of  June  came  ;  in  our  northern  coun- 
try the  loveliest  month  of  all  the  year.  The  In- 
dians called  it  by  a  word  which  signified,  in  their 
language,  the  month  of  flowers  ;  because,  in  this 
month,  most  wild  flowers  are  in  bloom.  It  was 
strawberry  time  ;  and  on  Saturday  the  children  of 
Mill-hill  were  going  out  to  gather  strawberries  ; 
some  for  their  own  families,  some  to  sell.  Mrs. 
Huntly  promised  our  little  girls  they  should  have 


MlLL-HtLL.  109 

half  they  picked  to  dispose  of  as  they  liked.  A 
happy  troop  they  set  forth ;  a  dozen  girls  from  six 
to  fourteen.  Every  one  was  in  good  humour  ;  the 
weather  was  as  fine  as  could  be,  neither  too  hot 
nor  too  cold  ;  and  Doctor  Partridge,  so  fortunate  a 
weather-guesser  that  the  good  people  of  Vernon 
he\d  him  for  more  than  half  a  prophet  upon  this 
most  hidden  of  all  mysteries — the  doctor  had  as- 
sured them  there  would  be  no  shower  that  day. 
Most  of  the  company  were  strangers  to  Anny  Ryan 
when  they  set  out ;  but  children  soon  make  ac- 
quaintance ;  and  her  frank,  pleasant  ways  quickly 
ripened  acquaintance  to  friendship.  Her  brogue, 
too — she  was  the  first  Irish-  person  that  some  of 
them  had  ever  seen — amused  them,  but  not  one  of 
them  noticed  it  in  a  way  to  hurt  her  feelings. 
This  was  owing,  in  great  part,  to  Emma  Maxwell's 
Sunday  teachings  ;  for  the  children  of  Mill-hill  were 
like  other  children,  and  would  have  been  very  apt 
to  do  carelessly  what  they  would  have  condemned 
upon  reflection.  It  was  Emma  that  taught  them  to 
reflect  before  they  acted  ;  to  respect  the  feelings . 
of  others ;  and  led  them  to  observe,  by  their  own 
experience,  how  trying  it  was  to  be  laughed  at,  to 
feel  it  to  be  wrong  to  laugh  at  others.  So,  though 
they  could  not  help  smiling  at  Anny's  brogue, 
they  looked  straight  forward,  or  looked  down,  and 
did  not  exchange  glances  and  shout,  as  children 
generally  do  on  such  occasions.  On  they  went, 
talking,  laughing,  and  singing ;  scrambling  over 
fences,  and  picking  their  way  around  the  edges  of 
ploughed  fields ;  now  stopping  to  pin  up  a  rent 
frock,  and  now  to  drink  from  a  crystal  brook  that 
gurgled  beside  their  pathway  over  the  mossy  stones. 


110  MILL-HILL. 

Long  were  they  in  coming  to  the  strawberry  field ; 
but,  when  there,  it  rung  with  exclamations  of  "  Oh, 
how  thick  they  are  !"  "  How  big  they  are  !"  "  How 
ripe  they  are  !"  "  Come  here,  girls,  there's  lots 
of  them  here  !"  "  Come  here,  will  ye,  all  V  cries 
Anny;  "this  same  is  as  red  with  'em  as  Mrs. 
O'Neills  cloak !" 

"  Oh  dear !"  exclaims  little  Sally  Lyn,  the  least 
of  the  flock,  "  I  have  spilt  all  mine  !" 

"  Never  care  for  that,"  replied  Anny ;  "  come  by 
me,  will  ye,  and  I'll  soon  fill  it  as  full  as  ye  had  it, 
for  it's  you  can't  pick  with  the  like  of  us." 

"Let's  all  throw  a  handful  into  little  Sally's 
basket,"  said  Mary  Fox,  incited  by  Anny's  example, 
and  all  eagerly  joined  excepting  Caroline,  who, 
from  the  first,  had  gone  apart  from  the  rest,  and 
who  had  taken  very  good  care  to  give  no  one  warn-' 
ing  when  she  found  plentiful  spots.  It  was  true, 
she  had  the  pleasure  of  filling  her  basket  before 
the  rest,  and  with  finer  strawberries ;  but  was  that 
worth  the  pleasure  of  the  others  ?  was  it  worth 
those  merry  shouts  that  came  from  the  little  com- 
pany ?  was  it  worth  the  pleasure  that  sparkled  from 
little  Sally  Lyn's  eyes  as  she  saw  her  basket  quick- 
ly filled,  by  willing  hands,  fuller  than  when  she  had 
spilt  it  ? 

"  Love  thyself  last"  said  once  a  great  man,  who 
was  ruined  by  grasping  at  too  large  a  portion  of 
the  good  things  of  this  world.  Rather  say,  in  the 
words  of  our  blessed  lawgiver,  Jesus,  "  Love  thy 
brother  as  thyself,"  and  then  we  shall  be  sure  of 
the  greatest  happiness  to  each  and  all. 

"  My  basket  is  full !"  cried  one  ;  "  And  mine  !" 
"And  mine!"    cried   others.     "All   are   full   but 


MILL-HILL.  Ill 

mine,"  said,  sorrowfully,  little  Betsy  Barton,  who 
had  lost  the  use  of  two  fingers.  Half  a  dozen 
voices  at  the  same  moment  proposed  joining  and 
filling  Betsy's  ;  and  even  Caroline,  who,  with  her 
basket  heaping  full,  had  been  for  some  time  waiting 
for  her  companions,  assisted  at  this  good  work. 
Now  they  all  proceeded  homeward,  till,  passing 
along  the  brow  of  a  certain  hill,  they  perceived, 
skirting  the  woods  above  them,  clusters  of  pink 
and  white  laurel,  looking  most  tempting  amid  their 
polished  green  leaves. 

It  was  proposed,  and  immediately  acceded  to, 
that  they  should  set  down  their  baskets  and  run  up 
the  hill  for  some  laurels.  They  were  returning, 
each  with  a  bunch  of  these  peerless  flowers,  when 
one  in  advance  of  the  rest  screamed  out,  "  Oh 
there's  one  of  our  baskets  turned  over,  and  the 
strawberries  all  spilled."   . 

"  I  am  sure,"  cried  Caroline,  "  it  is  not  mine, 
for  I  put  mine  in  the  best  place  !" 

"  Oh,  I  guess  it's  mine  !"  and  "  I  am  afraid  it's 
mine !"  and  "  I  know  it's  mine !"  came  from  the 
alarmed  flock.  "  Now,  stop  all  a  bit,  will  ye  ?" 
said  Amay  Ryan ;  "  let's  every  one  promise  the 
rest  we'll  fill  the  spilt  basket,  and  'then  nobody 
loses,  ye  see,  don't  ye  ?" 

"  That's  Irish  arithmetic  !"  cried  Caroline ;  "  I 
see  very  plain  that,  in  your  way,  instead  of  one  lo- 
sing, all  would  lose.  No,  no,  I'll  not  agree  to  that 
— it  would  not  be  fair,  for  my  strawberries  are  the 
largest  and  ripest." 

"  The  rest  of  us  are  agreed,"  said  one  of  the 
girls,  "  and  you,  Caroline,  will  be  the  only  loser ; 


112  MILL-HILL. 

for  Miss   Emma  says,  what  we  give  away  is   a 
treasure  laid  up  in  Heaven." 

"  A  mighty  treasure  to  lay  up  in  Heaven,"  replied 
Caroline,  tauntingly,  "  a  few  strawberries  !" 

"Ah,  but,  Caroline,  Miss  Emma  says  it  is  the 
feeling  of  the  giver  that  makes  the  gift  a  treasure-'' 
Thus,  not  most  harmoniously,  they  proceeded  e.i- 
gerly  on  to  ascertain  whose  was  the  upset  basket, 
and  behold,  it  was  Caroline's  !  The  children  exchan- 
ged smiles  ;  they  could  not  help  it ;  and  one  or  two 
murmured,  u  Good  enough  for  her !"  but  when  Car- 
oline burst  into  tears  of  mortification  and  disappoint- 
ment their  hearts  were  touched ;  and  while  some 
were  suggesting  how  the  accident  could  have  hap- 
pened, others  assisted  in  gathering  up  such  as  were 
uninjured,  and  all  stood  ready  to  fill  the  basket  from 
their  full  ones.  This  done,  Anny  Ryan  good-hu 
mouredly  shook  up  hers,  saying,  "  It's  only  making 
them  lie  a  bit  lighter,  girls,  and  the  basket  is  as 
full  as  it  was  before." 

"  Irish  arithmetic  is  best,  after  all,  I  think ;  don't 
you,  Caroline  ?"  asked  little  Sally  Lyn.  Caroline 
felt  thoroughly  ashamed,  but  she  could  not  say  so. 
Confession  of  a  fault  is  most  healing  to  the  wounds 
of  a  generous  mind,  but  most  difficult  to  such  a  tem- 
per as  Caroline's.  She  was,  however,  profiting  by 
the  hard  lesson  she  had  received ;  and  though,  in 
reply  to  Sally  Lyn's  home  question,  she  only  mur- 
mured a  half  audible  "  Yes,"  she  was  secretly  re- 
solving to  perform  a  deferred  duty.  They  came 
to  a  lane  that  turned  from  their  road.  Caroline 
passed  into  it  without  being  perceived  by  her  com- 
panions. She  checked  herself;  and,  thinking  they 
must  miss  her,  she  called  out,  '*  I  am  going  home 


Ml^L-HILL.  113 

this  way,  girls,  and — and — "  it  cost  her  an  effort, 
but  she  did  add,  "thank  you,  girls,  all  of  you." 
She  pursued  her  way  lighter-hearted  for  even  this 
acknowledgment. 

"  Was  ever  anybody  served  so  right  as  she  was, 
to  have  the  unlucky  basket  ?"'  asked  one  of  the 
troop  when  Caroline  was  out  of  hearing. 

11  Oh !  but  we  should  not  be  after  remembering 
that  same  now  she  has  thanked  us,"  replied  Anny 
Ryan. 

Caroline  soon  turned  off  the  main  road,  and,  get- 
ting through  some  bars,  went  along  a  steril  field 
and  a  bit  of  woods,  and  came  to  a  miserable  hut, 
such  as  the  virtuous  poor  in  our  country  are  seldom 
found  in.  As  she  approached  the  door  she  slack- 
ened her  steps,  she  trembled.  She  stopped  and 
listened,  but  she  heard  nothing  to  confirm  or  dissi- 
pate her  anxieties.  There  were  children  brawling 
within,  but  that  was  a  common  sound  in  that  disor- 
derly dwelling.  She  did  not  hear  the  whining  voice 
of  her  mother,  nor  the  hoarse  tones  of  her  father. 

"  What  a  fool  I  am  to  feel  so,"  thought  she  ;  "  it 
could  not  have  been  Justyn  ;  and,  if  it  was,  I  don't 
believe  he  is  here  !"  So  she  plifcked  up  courage 
and  proceeded.  When  she  opened  the  door  she 
found  children  only  ;  a  little  girl,  some  two  years 
old,  was  amusing  herself  scouring  the  floor  with 
greasy  dish-water  she  had  poured  over  it ;  and 
two  boys,  begrimed  from  head  to  foot,  were  lust- 
ily fighting  for  a  brass  button.  "  Oh  !  Car'y,  are 
you  here  V  exclaimed  one  ;  "  won't  you  make 
Jem  give  me  my  button  ?" 

"  I  say  it  an't  Jem's,  it's  mine  !"  retorted  his  an- 
tagonist. 


114  MILL-HILL. 

"Stop,  boys — pray  stop,  and  tell  me  where 
mother  is  ?" 

"  Well,  make  Jem  give  me  my  button,  then." 

"Do  give  it  to  him,  Jem." 

"  I  say  it  an't  his  ;  and,  besides,  he  don't  know 
where  mother  is  more  than  I  do." 

"  You  don't  know  where  mother  is,  Jem  ?" 

"  No — I  don't  know  nor  don't  care." 

"  Where  is  father  V  The  boys'  quarrel  now 
abated.  They  saw  Caroline  looked  alarmed,  and 
they  caught  something  of  her  feeling.  "Father 
has  been  gone  this  ever  so  many  days,"  replied 
Jem,  "  and  I  hope  he  never  will  come  back,  for 
he  eats  up  everything,  and  don't  leave  nothing." 

"But  mother — has  she  been  gone  long?" 

"  No — she  keeps  a  going.  She  has  been  want- 
ing me  to  go  for  you ;  and  Sam  and  I  did  go  as  far 
as  the  bars  yesterday,  and  Sam  would  not  go  any 
farther,  and  I  did  not  want  to  go  alone ;  and  when 
we  came  back  mother  flogged  us,  and  then  I  would 
not  go.  Mother  went  down  this  morning  to  get 
some  of  Reuben  Piatt's  folks  to  go,  but  they  were 
all  gone  away.  Come,  give  us  some  of  your  straw- 
berries— mother  picked  some  in  a  pint  bowl,  but 
she  would  not  give  us  any — she  carried  them  all 
off  with  her." 

"  Neither  can  I  give  you  any,  boys,  for  they  are 
half  Mrs.  Huntly's,  and  they  are  not  yet  meas- 
ured." 

"  Well,  if  you  won't  give,  we  can  take,"  rejoined 
Jem,  and  he  and  Sam  at  the  same  moment  grabbed 
a  handful.  The  little  girl  on  the  floor  now  for 
the  first  time  looked  up  from  her  seemingly  fas- 
cinating employment,  and  demanded  a  share  ;  and 


MILL-HILL.  115 

when  Caroline  turned  her  off  with  two  or  three, 
she  clutched  the  basket,  and  came  very  near  empty- 
ing it  upon  the  filthy  floor.  It  was  from  such  a 
scene,  such  a  family  as  this,  that  Caroline  had 
been  rescued  by  Emma.  Did  she  not  imitate  her 
Master  in  going  about  to  seek  and  to  save  that 
which  was  lost  ?  And  did  she  not  well  in  pa- 
tiently bearing  with  faults  that  had  been  deeply 
fixed  in  Caroline's' character,  in  this  sad  school? 

Caroline  was  at  a  loss  what  to  do.  Night  was 
near,  and  she  had  more  than  two  miles  to  go  to  Mrs. 
Huntly's.  Still  it  seemed  to  her  impossible  to  re- 
turn without  seeing  her  mother.  All  that  she  had 
heard  from  the  boys  had  increased  her  anxieties, 
and  she  felt  very  sure  that  some  dreadful  evil  had 
happened  to  her  family.  "  Oh,  pray  hush,  chil- 
dren !"  she  would  say,  and  then  go  to  the  door  and 
look  wistfully  out ;  and  then,  sighing,  exclaim  again 
and  again,  "  I  wish  mother  would  come !"  The 
children  did  become  more  quiet,  and  seemed,  in  a 
degree,  to  partake  her  feelings  ;  and  Jem  said,  "  I 
wish,  too,  mother  would  come,  for  Alvy  Hubbard 
has  been  here,  and  left  a  newspaper  for  her,  and 
says  she  must  read  the  place  he  has  marked  round 
with  black — there  it  is,  Car'y — you  can  look  at  it." 

Caroline  took  the  paper  carelessly,  and  turned  to 
the  marked  paragraph ;  but  her  eye  was  soon  fixed, 
and  her  heart  throbbed  as  she  read  what  follows 
from  the  "  Lemonville  Star." 

"  It  is  our  painful  duty  to  record  an  event  that 
has  filled  the  inhabitants  of  this  town  with  grief 
and  dismay.  The  hotel  was  robbed  and  burnt 
last  night  by  two  wretches  in  the  employ  of  Mr. 
Alger,  the  keeper  of  the  house.     One  of  the  vil- 


116  MILL-HILL. 

lains  must  have  entered  the  room  where  Mr.  A. 
was  sleeping,  as  his  pocketbook,  containing  five 
hundred  dollars  (known  to  have  been  received  from 
the  bank  the  day  before),  was  taken  from*  the 
pocket  of  his  coat,  lying  on  a  chair  at  the  foot  of 
his  bed.  What  else  may  have  been  taken  is  not 
known,  as  the  wretches,  after  the  robbery,  set  fire 
to  the  house  and  fled.  The  family  was  roused 
from  their  sleep  by  the  crackling  of  the  flames. 
They  and  the  lodgers  in  the  house  just  escaped 
writh  their  lives,  excepting  two  little  boys,  the  only 
children  of  a  traveller,  a  widow.  The  children 
had  been  put  to  sleep  in  an  upper  chamber,  while 
the  mother  occupied  a  room  on  the  ground  floor. 
The  cries  of  the  mother,  when  she  found  it  was  im- 
possible to  rescue  her  little  boys,  were  heart-rend- 
ing. It  is  hoped  the  wretches  who  committed  this 
foul  deed  may  be  apprehended,  and  brought  to  the 
condign  punishment  they  have  incurred.  One  was 
a  Spaniard,  who  called  himself  Martini,  and  who 
had  been  a  waiter  at  Mr.  Alger's  for  about  three 
months  ;  the  other  a  lad  by  the  name  of  Justyn 
Hill,  formerly  of  Massachusetts.  He  has  lived  in 
this  neighbourhood  for  the  last  three  years,  and, 
though  rather  an  unsteady  youth,  he  has  not  before 
been  known  to  offend  against  the  laws  of  the  land." 
Then  followed  a  particular  description  of  the  per- 
sons of  the  culprits,  their  horses,  &c,  Sic.  "  Oh 
dear !"  said  Caroline,  throwing  down  the  paper 
when  she  had  finished  it,  "  what  shall  I  do  !  what 
can  be  done  I" 

After  a  moment's  reflection  she  determined  to 
return  as  quickly  as  possible  to  Mill-hill,  to  tell 
Miss  Emma  all  and  take'  her  advice.     Without 


MILL-HILL.  117 

saying  another  word  to  the  children,  she  darted  out 
of  the  door.  "  Car'y  has  left  her  strawberries," 
exclaimed  Jem,  seizing  the  basket,  "  and  I'll  have 
as  many  as  I  want  now  !" 

"  You  shall  give  me  as  many  as  I  want,"  cried 
his  brother. 

'  I  won't  give  you  one  without  I'm  a  mind  to," 
retorted  Jem. 

"  Then  I'll  call  after  Car'y  ;"  and,  immediately 
following  up  his  threat,  he  ran  out  of  the  door, 
screaming  after  his  sister. 

"  Never  mind — never  mind  !"  answered  Caro- 
line, whose  heart  was  now  quite  too  full  to  care  for 
the  strawberries  ;  "  you  may  have  the  strawberries 
—  only  pray  be  quiet."  But  Caroline  was  soon 
summoned  back  by  another  voice,  which  she  hastily 
obeyed.  A  few  yards  from  the  hut  occupied  by 
the  Hills  was  another  building  of  rough  logs,  which 
was  divided  into  a  stable  and  hayloft. '  From  this 
building  issued  Mrs.  Hill,  treading  softly,  and,  after 
looking  anxiously  in  every  direction,  she  called 
Caroline.  Caroline  turned,  and  quickly  retraced 
her  steps.  Mrs.  Hill,  who  was  at  all  times  a  sal- 
low, slatternly,  sickly,  careworn-looking  person, 
was  now  the  picture  of  misery  and  despair.  She 
had  no  cap  on,  and  her  thin,  gray,  snarled,  and 
dusty  locks  were  partly  confined  by  a  few  teeth  of 
a  broken  comb,  and  partly  straggling  over  her  face 
and  neck.  Her  gown,  which  had  not  been  taken 
off  for  a  week,  was  slit  in  every  direction  by  climb- 
ing into  the  hayloft,  and  its  greasy  surface  pow- 
dered over  with  the  chaff  and  dust  of  the  place. 
When  Caroline  came  to  her  she  seemed  to  lose  the 
power  of  speech,  and  only  wrung  her  hands  and 


1  IB  MILL-HILL. 

groaned.  "Mother,  you  need  not  tell  me,"  said 
the  poor  girl,  "  I  have  read  it  all  in  the  newspa- 
per." 

"  In  the  newspaper ! — oh,  speak  lower — he  will 
hear  you — if  you  had  but  come  three  days  ago  !" 
and  then  she  earnestly  "whispered,  and  Caroline, 
without  making  any  other  reply  but  "  Yes — yes — 
yes,"  set  off  at  full  speed  towards  Mill-hill. 

She  met  Anny  at  the  kitchen  door,  who,  instead 
of  reproaching  her  with  having  stayed  out  and  left 
her  to  do  all  her  chores*  said,  with  a  smiling  face, 
"  And  it's  I  that  am  glad  to  see  you,  Car'line — and 
what  were  ye  after  staying  so  late  ?  But,  bless 
me,  ye're  white  as  a  skinned  potato — is  it  that  ye've 
sold  all  your  strawberries,  and  brought  never  a  one 
home  ?  No  1  Are  ye  sick  1  Has  anything  hap- 
pened to  your  people  V  Caroline  burst  into  tears, 
but  spoke  not  a  word.  "  Ah,  that  same  is  it,"  con- 
tinued Anny,  "  that  lies  heaviest  on  the  heart — go 
up  to  Miss  Emma — she  is  in  her  little  room — make 
a  clane  breast  of  it  to  her,  Car'line,  and  if  there's 
one  can  help  you  it's  she — both  by  word  and  deed 
— for  was  not  it  she  that  made  me  look  up  when 
my  heart  was  down  in  the  grave,  quite,  wi'  Judy  ?" 

Caroline  heard  but  half  of  Anny's  kind  sugges- 
tions, for  she  was  in  Emma's  room  before  they 
were  finished.  Anny  saw  no  more  of  her  that  night ; 
but,  after  it  became  dark,  and  very  dark  it  was, 
Caroline  retraced  her  way  to  her  mother's  hovel, 
accompanied  by  Emma.  Many  young  women 
might  have  felt  timid  in  going  two  miles  late  in 
the  evening,  and  far  away  from  any  public  road ; 
but  Emma  was  not  addicted  to  fears.  She  knew 
there  was  nothing  to  fear  from  the  inhabitants  of 


MILL-HILL.  119 

the  town  ;  and  when  Caroline,  who  kept  very  close 
to  her,  whispered,  "  Are  you  not  afraid  we  may 
meet  some  of  those  Irishmen  ?"  "  And  what  if  we 
do  ?"  she  replied ;  "  they  are  all  good  friends  to 
me."  Well  they  might  be,  for  there  was  not  a 
family  among  them  she  had  not  visited,  to  see  the 
sick,  or  persuade  the  children  to  come  to  Sunday* 
school,  or  on  some  such  errand  as  befits  those 
who  would  be  about  "  their  Father's  business." 

The  Hills'  hut  was  a  dismal  place  to  approach 
at  night.  Fortunately,  one  dim  handle  burnt  there ; 
and  we  all  know 

"  How  far  the  little  candle  throws  it's  beams, 
So  shines  a  good  deed  in  a  naughty  world"." 

"Keep  close  to  me,  Miss  Emma,"  said  Caro-1 
line,  as  she  removed  the  boards  that  served  instead 
of  a  door  to  the  stable  ;  "  and  pray  be  careful  how 
you  step,  for  there  are  holes  in  the  old  floor.  Oh, 
what  a  place  to  bring  you  to !  Mother !"  she 
called,  but  scarcely  above  her  breath ;  "  mother, 
we  are  here." 

A  careful  tread  was  heard  above,  and  Mrs.  Hill's 
voice,  saying,  "  Stand  away  from  under  while  I 
let  down  the  ladder."  A  ladder  was  accordingly 
let  down,  and  they  felt  their  way  up  it ;  and  then 
Mrs.  Hill,  taking  the  arm  of  each,  led  them  to  the 
extremity  of  the  loft,  where,  till  their  eyes  became 
accustomed  to  the  dim  light,  they  could  see  nothing 
distinctly.  The  angle  where  the  sick  boy  was 
lying  was  hung  round  with  old  clothes  and  quilts, 
to  prevent  the  light  from  penetrating  the  opening 
between  the  boards,  and  thus  leading  to  a  discov- 
ery of  the  hiding-place.     A  miserable  candle  was 


120  MILL-HILL. 

placed  in  a  tub  laid  on  its  side,  so  that  the  rays 
only  fell  on  the  bed,  and  were  scarcely  at  all  re- 
flected by  the  dark  hangings  against  the  walls. 
"  There  is  a  chair  I  fetched  for  you,  Miss  Emma," 
said  Mrs.  Hill,  "  for  I  felt  as  if  you  would  come 
when  you  knew  how  the  case  was.  Car'y,  you 
can  lop  down  on  the  straw  with  me.  He'll  soon 
wake — poor  boy,  how  he  has  listened  and  longed 
for  you !" 

"  Is  he  inclined  to  talk  ?" 

"  Not  now ;  it's  but  a  few  words  he  can  say ; 
but,  when  he  first  came,  I  could  not  pacify  him,  he 
hankered  so  to  see  you.  I  daresn't  leave  him, 
and  I  could  not  make  one  of  the  boys  go  for  you. 
You  know  I  have  always  had  the  fortin  to  have  the 
dontrariest  of  children.  It  did  make  me  feel  dread- 
ful to  see  him  feeling  as  if  Miss  Emma  could  do 
something  for  him,  and  sit  here  hand  and  feet  tied, 
as  it  were." 

If  Mrs.  Hill  had  not  been  the  most  shiftless  of 
women,  she  would  have  contrived  some  way  of 
getting  Emma,  and  so  thought  Caroline  ;  but  this 
did  not  prevent  her  bitterly  reproaching  herself. 
"  Oh,"  thought  she,  "  if  I  had  only  come  home  the 
next  morning  after  Anny  saw  Justyn — I  knew  I 
ought  to.  I  felt  as  if  Justyn  was  in  trouble,  but  I 
thought  I  was  clear  of  it,  and  I  meant  to  keep  so 
— oh — oh,  how  sorry  I  am  !"  Caroline's  thoughts 
were  drawn  from  herself  by  the  story  Mrs.  Hill 
told  while  Justyn  slept.  As  Mrs.  Hill  prolonged 
it  unnecessarily,  I  shall  relate  it  more  concisely. 

Justyn  Hill's  father  was  an  ill-tempered  and  in- 
temperate man  ;  his  mother  idle,  shiftless,  and  slat- 
ternly.    These  vices  are  quite  enough  to  ruin  any 


MILL-IIILL.  121 

family,  without  the  parents  being  false,  dishonest, 
or  cruel,  which  last  the  Hills  were  not.  There- 
fore there  was  hope  of  the  children,  if,  While  young, 
they  could  be  removed  from  them  ;  and,  therefore, 
Emma  Maxwell  rejoiced  when  Justyn  left  Vernon. 
But,  unfortunately,  Justyn  took  with  him  the  habit, 
in  which  his  foolish  parents  had  encouraged  him, 
of  leaving  his  employers  on  slight  grounds.  At  one 
place  the  wages  were  too  tow,  at  another  the  work 
too  heavy  ;  at  one  he  was  required  to  wait  on  table, 
at  another  to  .do  the  milking ;  and  on  some  such 
frivolous  grounds  he  would  leave  a  good  situation. 
Foolish  boy  !  Was  there  ever  a  situation  to  which 
there  was  not  some  objection,  from  the  king  in  his 
palace  downward  ? 

Finally  he  got  into  the  service  of  Mr.  Alger,  the 
master  of  the  hotel  in  Lemonville.  There  he  made 
acquaintance  with  Martini,  a  Spaniard,  who  first 
entertained  him  with  stories  of  his  own  wild  ad- 
ventures, and  then  instructed  him  in  his  own  vices. 
They  were  out  late  at  night,  and  drank  and  gam- 
bled till,  having  no  more  money  for  their  sinful 
pleasures,  and  Justyn  being  deeply  in  debt  to  Mar- 
tini, Martini  proposed  the  robbery ;  and  Justyn, 
being  prepared  by  previous  steps  in  wickedness, 
acceded  to  the  proposition.  Their  plan  was  to  get 
what  money  they  could,  and  proceed  to  New-York, 
and  thence  to  Texas.  They  made  what  they  called 
"a  rich  haul,"  having  rifled  from  the  landlord  and 
lodgers  in  the  hotel  upward  of  a  thousand  dollars. 
They  had  ridden  about  four  miles  on  horses  stolen 
from  Alger's  stable,  when,  on  mounting  a  high  hill 
and  looking  back,  they  saw  the  hotel  in  flames ; 
and  Martini  remembered  he  had  left  a  lamp  in  a 
L 


122  MILL-HILL. 

pantry  where  there  was  an  optn  box  of  shavings. 
Martini  knew  that  their  innocence  of  the  intention 
could  never  be  proved ;  he  knew  that  burning  a 
dwelling-house  was,  in  the  eye  of  the  law,  arson, 
and  that  arson  was  a  capital  offence.  He  was 
sure  the  whole  country  would  be  up  and  in  pursuit 
of  them;  and,  communicating  his  alarm  to  Justyn, 
they  put  their  horses  to  their  speed,  and  rode  till 
the  jaded  animals  were  unahje  to  proceed  a  step 
farther.  They  then  turned  them  loose  and  pro- 
ceeded on  foot ;  once,  and  only  once,  venturing  to 
stop  at  a  farmhouse  for  refreshment.  Martini  grew 
surly  and  quarrelsome';  and  on  some  trifling  word, 
so  trifling  that  Justyn  could  not  recall  it,  Martini 
assaulted  him  with  a  heavy  walnut  stick ;  and,  stri- 
king him  on  the  head,  left  him  senseless.  This 
was  at  noon.  On  recovering  his  consciousness 
next  morning  at  dawn,  he  found  Martini  had  robbed 
him  of  his  half  of  the  stolen  money,  and  had  dragged 
him  into  a  thicket  some  yards  from  the  roadside, 
and  left  him  there  to  die.  His  head  was  aching. 
He  was  exhausted  with  hunger,  pain,  and  loss  of 
blood.  He  now  bitterly  repented  his  folly  and 
wickedness,  and  would  have  laid  him  down  to  die  ; 
but,  hearing  the  murmuring  of  water,  and  burning 
with  thirst,  he  crawled  to  it,  drank,  and  was  le- 
freshed.  Then  returned  the  love  of  life.  As 
nearly  as  he  could  calculate,  he  was  seventy  miles 
from  home.  There  he  decided  to  go.  His  mother 
would  screen  him,  if  possible,  and  take  care  of  him 
till  he  could  take  care  of  himself.  A  mother  is  the 
first  on  whom  We  depend,  the  last  to  desert  us. 
Mrs.  Hill,  with  all  her  faults,  was  a  loving  mother. 
Indeed,  one  of  her  worst  faults  was  the  perversion 


MILL-HILL.  14^3 

of  this  love  which  induced  her  to  indulge  her  chil- 
dren, and  withhold  a  just  punishment  from  their 
wrong  doings. 

Justyn  washed  his  bloody  garments  in  the  brook, 
and  dried  them  in  the  sun,  and  then  set  out  on  his 
journey.  He  was  very  ill  and  weak ;  and  such 
throbbings,  he  said,  he  had  in  his  head,  that  he 
thought  he  should  lose  his  senses.  Oh  how  gladly 
he  would  have  returned  to  any  of  the  places  he  had 
so  foolishly  left,  and  patiently  toiled  there  !  how 
often  did  he  feel  that  the  way  of  the  transgressor 
is  hard,  harder  than  the  hardest  lot  of  the  honest 
working  man.  Fearfully  and  slowly  he  made  his 
way  to  the  public  road.  He  knew  he  risked  being 
arrested,  but  he  knew,  too,  that  he  must  eat  or  die, 
and  he  was  sure  that  he  could  never  travel  on  foot 
the  distance  to  his  home.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
every  person  he  met  was  ready  to  seize  him ;  still 
he  ventured  to  enter  a  farmhouse  and  ask  for  food. 
There  were  none  but  women  at  home.  He  told  a 
plausible  story  of  his  having  been  on  a  journey, 
and  belated  at  night — that  his  horse  had  taken 
fright  and  thrown  him ;  and  that,  when  he  came  to 
himself,  his  horse  was  gone,  and  he  in  the  misera- 
ble condition  they  saw  him.  The  pity  of  the  wo- 
men was  excited.  They  dressed  his  wound,  and 
gave  him  the  best  refreshment  the  house  afforded. 
While  he  was  eating  a  foot-traveller  came  in  and 
told  the  particulars  of  the  fire  at  Lemonville.  He 
said  he  had  passed  the  night  at  the  hotel ;  that, 
luckily,  he  had  slept  in  the  barn,  and  that  he  was 
the  very  last  person  who  that  night  had  seen  and 
talked  with  the  lad  concerned  in  the  robbery. 

Justyn  involuntarily  turned  his  eye  towards  tho 


124  MILL-HILL. 

traveller,  and  recognised  him ;  but,  fortunately, 
owing,  probably,  to  Justyn's  extreme  paleness  (he 
had  naturally  a  ruddy  cheek),  the  traveller  did  not 
know  him.  When  the  man  came  to  the  description 
of  the  widowed  mother's  distress  at  the  horrid  death 
of  her  two  boys,  it  was  too  much  for  Justyn ;  he 
dropped  his  knife  and  fork,  fainted,  and  fell  on  the 
floor.  Discovery  would  now  have  seemed  inevita- 
ble ;  but,  when  Justyn  came  to  himself,  he  per* 
ceived  that  no  suspicion  had  been  excited.  The 
kind-hearted  women  thought  that  such  a  story  in  his 
weak  state  was  quite  enough  to  overcome  him; 
and  their  pitiful  hearts  were  moved  to  ask  a  man 
who  was  passing  in  a  wagon  to  give  the  poor  lad 
a  cast.  The  man  cheerfully  consented,  and  carried 
him  thirty  miles  on  his  way.  Encouraged  by  his 
safe  progress,  he  ventured  at  evening  into  the  bar- 
room of  a  tavern.  The  first  thing  that  struck  his 
eye  was  an  advertisement  in  capital  letters,  headed 
"  One  hundred  dollars  reward.'"  This  was  offered 
for  the  apprehension  of  Martini  and  himself;  and, 
following  it,  so  accurate  a  description  of  his  person, 
that  he  wondered  every  eye  that  fell  upon  him  did 
not  recognise  him.  As  soon  as  he  could  escape 
observation,  he  slunk  out  of  the  bar-room  and  pro- 
ceeded on  his  journey.  He  entered  a  house  but 
once  after  this,  and  lived  chiefly  on  lettuces,  young 
peapods,  and  other  green  vegetables  which  he  took 
from  the  gardens  at  night.  At  the  end  of  three  days, 
and  after  much  weariness,  and  a  continually  increas- 
ing distress  in  his  head,  he  arrived  in  his  native 
town.  His  last  halt  was  made  at  Mrs.  Huntly's 
well,  where,  he  said,  he  thought  he  must  lay  down 
and  die  ;  but  the  draught  of  water  and  kind  little  An- 


MILL-HILL.  125 

ay's  Cake  revived  him ;  and,  though  unable  to  ob- 
tain any  information  about  his  parents,  he  proceeded 
to  the  old  place,  and  there  found  his  mother,  who, 
after  hearing  his  dismal  tale,  undertook  to  conceal 
him  in  the  hayloft.  There  a  violent  fever  and 
racking  pains  had  seized  him.  He  dared  not  send 
for  a  physician ;  he  could  think  of  no  one  who 
could  help  him,  to  whom  he  could  venture  to  con- 
fide his  story,  but  Emma  Maxwell.  "  Oh,  mother !" 
.mother !"  he  would  cry  out,  "  if  you  had  only  sent 
me  to  Miss  Emma's  Sunday  school  when  she 
wanted  me  to  go,  I  should  never  have  got  into  this 
trouble.  I  wanted  to  go,  you  know  I  did,  mother, 
for  I  loved  Miss  Emma,  and  so  did  all  the  children  ; 
but,  somehow,  my  Clothes  were  never  washed  or 
never  mended,  and  so  you  were  ashamed'  to  send 
me,  and  I  was  ashamed  to  go ;  and  I  went  about 
idling  and  playing,  and  that  made  me  like  to  be 
idle  week-days.  Oh  dear !  dear !  if  I  could  only 
live  it  over  again  !" 

Poor  Justyn !  he  was  quite  right.  It  was  not 
only  the  loss  of  Emma  Maxwell's  good  lessons, 
but,  by  habitually  breaking  that  holy  law  which 
commands  us  to  remember  the  Sabbath  day  and 
keep  it  holy,  he  came  to  disregard  the  other  laws 
of  God.  No  one  is  hardened  all  at  once,  but  by 
degrees.  If  we  venture  to  take  one  step  from  the 
right  path,  we  know  not  how  far  we  shall  wander, 
nor  when,  if  ever,  we  shall  return ;  therefore,  my 
dear  child,  whoever  you  may  be  that  reads  this 
story,  pray  pause,  and  reflect,  and  think  of  poor 
Justyn  before  you  take  the  first  wrong  step. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  can  do  for  him,"  said 
Mrs.  Hill  to  Emma,  as  she  concluded  Justyn  a 
L2 


126  MILL-HILL. 

story  ;  "  it's  little,  indeed,  that  can  be  done  ;  but  he 
had  such  a  craving  to  see  you  that  it  seemed  as  if 
you  was  to  do  something  for  him." 

Justyn  had  Suffered  from  a  "  famine  for  bread," 
and  from  a  M  thirst  for  water ;"  but  he  had  felt  that 
keener  hungering  and  thirsting  for  the  "  word  of 
the  Lord."  That  blessed  word,  which  could  in- 
struct his  ignorant  mind  and  direct  his  soul  in  its 
longings  for  pardon  and  acceptance.  When  he 
awoke  from  his  unquiet  sleep  it  was  but  too  evident 
that  the  time  was  past  when  human  ministry  could 
avail  him.  "  Justyn,"  said  the  mother,  "  Miss 
Emma  Maxwell  and  Car'y  have  come  to  see  you." 

"  Miss  Emma  Maxwell  and  Car'y,"  he  repeated, 
with  a  vacant  stare. 

"  You  know  you  wanted  to  see  Miss  Emma  ter- 
ribly, Justyn." 

"Did  I?" 

"  Why,  yes,  Justyn.  Now  she  is  here,  don't 
you  know  her  ?" 

"  Know  who  ?     I  don't  see  anybody." 

"  Oh,  my  soul !"  exclaimed  the  wretched  mother, 
"  his  sight  is  gone  !     Justyn,  don't  you  see  Car'y  V 

"  Car'y  ?  Car'y  ?  no — oh,  mother,  do  take  this 
band  off  my  head." 

"  There  is  no  band  there,  Justyn,"  said  Emma, 
laying  her  hand  on  his  burning  forehead. 

"  Then  it's  fire — fire— but,  oh,  they  burnt  all  up  !" 

"  That  is  the  way,"  whispered  his  mother, 
"  when  he  is  out  of  his  head,  his  mind  is  all  the 
while  running  on  those  children  that  were  burnt 
at  Lemonville.  Justyn,  can't  you  rouse  and  speak 
to  Miss  Emma !" 

Justyn  only  groaned  in  answer,  and  Emma  beg- 


MILL-HILL.  127 

ged  her  to  trouble  him  no  further,  saying  it  was 
quite  useless.  She  proposed  going  to  the  village 
for  a  physician  ;  and,  as  Mrs.  Hill's  fear  of  exposure 
was  now  swallowed  up  in  a  greater  fear,  she  thank- 
fully acquiesced.  "  Oh,  pray,  you  stay  here,  Miss 
Emma,"  said  Caroline ;  "  you  may  do  him  some 
good.  I  will  go  alone  for  the  doctor."  Caroline 
was  learning,  by  hard  lessons,  to  think  of  others 
before  herself. 

While  she  was  gone  Emma  watched  every  vari- 
ation of  Justyn's  countenance,  in  the  hope  of  a 
dawn  of  reason,  but  in  vain.  There  were  changes, 
but  such  changes  as  indicated  the  rapid  approach 
of  death.  She  knelt  by  his  bedside  and  prayed  for 
him.  The  doctor  came,  but  only  to  say  that  no- 
thing could  be  done.  He  was  in  the  last  stage  of  a 
brain  fever,  brought  on  by  his  wound,  his  subse- 
quent journey,  and  dreadful  anxiety  of  mind.  "  Had 
I  seen  him  when  he  first  arrived,"  said  the  doctor, 
"  it  is  barely  possible  I  might  have  saved  his  life." 
These  words  wene  daggers  to  Caroline. 

He  died  before  noon,  and  there  existing  no  fur- 
ther reason  for  concealment,  he  was  removed  to 
his  mother's  house,  and  she  was  enabled,  by  the 
kindness  of  the  villagers,  to  bury  him  decently  the 
next  Sunday. 

It  is  one  of  the  blessings  and  privileges  of  coun- 
try life,  that  no  one  is  so  high  or  so  low  as  to  be 
quite  separated  from  his  townsmen.  The  lawyer 
and  the  merchant  may  live  in  big  houses,  drive 
handsome  horses,  and  have  many  luxuries,  but  still 
they  know  the  name,  condition,  and  vocation  of  the 
poorest  labourer,  and,  for  all  external  differences, 
there  is  for  the  most  part  a  kindly  feeling  between 


128  MILL-HILL. 

them.  The  chain  here  and  there  hangs  loosely, 
but  is  nowhere  broken.  It  is  the  sorest  trial  to  be 
cast  off  utterly,  and  it  is  a  help  and  incentive  to 
amendment  to  the  most  degraded  to  feel  that  they 
are  cared  'for  by  the  good  and  respected.  When 
Emma  Maxwell  and  some  others  like  her  assem- 
bled at  Mrs.  Hill's  hut  to  attend  the  funeral  solem- 
nities, that  miserable  woman's  heart  was  touched, 
and,  wringing  Emma's  hand,  she  said,  "  You  do 
not  forsake  us  ?" 

"  No,  Mrs.  Hill— but  look  to  God— he  never 
forsakes  us." 

Many  of  the  Sunday  scholars,  and  all  Emma 
Maxwell's  class,  attended  the  funeral.  When  they 
turned  from  the  grave  Emma  asked  them  to  come 
and  sit  with  her  on  a  bench  under  a  cluster  of  lo- 
cust-trees in  one  corner  of  the  burying- ground. 
There  she  loved  to  sit  and  instruct  them,  and  there, 
imitating  the  wisdom  of  our  Saviour,  she  drew 
from  the  objects  before  her  a  meet  enforcement  of 
her  lesson.  A  new-made  grave  is  a  pregnant  text 
to  preach  from,  more  especially  if,  knowing  its  ten- 
ant, we  do  not  shrink  from  the  lesson  it  teaches. 

Emma  Maxwell's  scholars,  in  earnest  expectation, 
waited  for  her  to  speak.  There  was  many  a  wet 
eye  among  them.  Most  of  them  had  known  Jus- 
tyn,  and  they  felt  as  human  beings  should  feel  for 
the  disgrace  of  their  fellows,  pitiful. 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  afternoon,"  said  Emma,  and 
so  it  was ;  but  the  children  wondered  Miss  Emma 
should  be  thinking  of  the  beauty  of  the  afternoon. 
"  The  shower,"  she  continued  (an  abundant  shower 
had  fallen),  "  has  done  a  good  work  for  us  ;  every- 
thing looks  refreshed,  and  the  leaves  and  the  grass 


MILL-HILL.  129 

have  taken  a  new  start.  How  beautiful  is  that 
field  of  wheat  waving  under  this  wind,  that  gives 
it  just  the  exercise  it  needs,  and  this  little  brook 
sparkling  on  its  way  to  the  river,  and  the  river  pur- 
suing its  course  to  the  great  ocean,  *  nurse  of  rains.' 
The  sun,  and  the  wind,  and  the  rain  are  God's 
ministers ;  they  do  his  will ;  they  always  obey 
his  laws.  Is  it  not  strange,  my  dear  children, 
that  his  rational  creatures,  those  whom  he  has 
made  capable  of  voluntary  obedience,  should  dis- 
obey him?" 

iC  Do  you  mean  folks,  Miss  Emma  ?"  asked  one 
of  the  little  girls ;  and  "  I  guess  she  means  Justyn," 
whispered  another. 

"  You  are  both  right,"  answered  Emma  ;  "  I 
mean  those  that  have  reason  like  you  and  I,  and 
poor  Justyn — " 

"  But,  Miss  Emma,  I  think — "  said  one  of  the 
boys,  and  there  he  stopped. 

"  What  do  you  think,  John  ?  I  always  like  to 
know  what  you  think.'''' 

"Well,  I  think,  Miss  Emma,  Justyn  was  not  so 
very  bad.  He  was  freehearted,  and  he  always 
stood  by  the  little  boys." 

"  And,  besides,  Miss  Emma,"  said  another  friend 
of  Justyn,  "  he  had  such  a  bad  father,  and  such  a 
poor  kind  of  a  mother — it's  blamed  hard  to  be  good 
when  your  folks  are  all  bad." 

"  This  is  true,  my  children.  I  am  glad  you 
think  of  these  palliations  of  Justyn's  faults.  Learn 
to  judge  the  living  as  kindly  as  you  do  the  dead. 
The  grave  should  teach  us  this  lesson.  I  do  not 
wish  any  more  than  you  to  recall  Justyn's  faults. 
He  is  now  with  that  Judge  who  judges  righteous 


1 30  ItflLL-HILL. 

judgment.  We  must  improve  by  the  lesson  taught 
by  his  life  and'  early  death.  Tell  me  what  you 
learn  from  it,  my  children.  Life  is  our  school,  you 
know." 

"  I  can't  think  of  anything,"  said  little  Sally 
Lyn ;  "  only  I  am  as  sorry  as  can  be  for  Justyn." 

"  y  ery  well,  Sally.  To  feel  sorrow  instead  of 
dislike  for  those  who  have  done  wrong  is  a  good 
lesson  to  learn." 

"  I  should  think,  Miss  Emma,"  said  one  of  the 
boys,  whose  mind  was  very  apt  to  dwell  on  the 
wrong  doing  of  others,  "  I  should  think  Justyn's 
parents  would  feel  awfully.  Father  says  they 
never  regulate  their  children  any  way ;  and  I  have 
seen  Hill  give  Justyn  rum  to  drink,  and  I  have  heard 
him  swear  at  Justyn,  and  Justyn  swore  back  again." 

"  You  are  not  studying  your  own  lesson,  Thom- 
as," said  Miss  Emma.  "  It  is  for  Justyn's  parents 
to  remember  these  things  ;  and  I  am  glad  to  tell  you, 
children,  that  poor  Mrs.  Hill  is  already  profiting  by 
the  lesson  she  has  learned.  She  asked  me  yes- 
terday to  find  places  for  her  boys,  and  said  she 
would  thankfully  put  them  into  any  oneV  hands 
who  would  bring  them  up  well.  But  tell  me, 
children,  if  Justyn  could  speak  to  you  from  that 
grave,  what  advice  would  he  give,  think  you  ?" 

"  I  guess  he  would  advise  to  come  always  to 
Miss  Emma's  Sunday-school,"  replied  one  of  the 
girls. 

"  But  sure,"  said  Anny  Ryan,  "  it's  not  the  dead 
that  need  spake  to  advise  us  to  do  what  we  like 
best  to  do  of  all  things — and  that  same  is  coming 
to  Miss  Emma's  Sunday-school  ;  but  it's  he  would 
advise  us  to  be  after  doing  what  Miss  Emma  laches, 


MILL-HILL.  131 

and  that's  not  so  asy-like."  The  children  smiled 
and  nodded  an  assent  to  Anny's  suggestion. 

"  There  is  one  lesson,  Miss  Emma,"  said  Am- 
brose, one  of  the  larger  boys,  "  that  we  can  learn 
from  poor  Justyn — to  keep  out  of  bad  company. 
My  mother  says  she  don't  believe  he  would  have 
got  into  that  difficulty  if  he  had  not  been  led  on  by 
Martini." 

"  Thank  you,  Ambrose.  I  hope  you  will  all 
learn  this  lesson  so  well  that  you  will  be  sure  to 
remember  it  when  you  are  tempted  to  associate 
with  those  you  know  can  do  you  no  good,  but 
harm." 

"  But,  Miss  Emma,  you  always  tell  us  the  good 
should  not  forsake  the  bad  ?" 

"  Nor  should  they,  Ambrose  ;  but  they  should  be 
very  sure  that  their  motive  in  associating  with  them 
is  to  do  them  good,  not  for  their  own  pleasure  or 
indulgence  in  any  way.  Jesus  Christ  came  to 
seek  and  to  save  those  who  were  lost.  The  phy- 
sician visits  the  sick  to  heal  them.  As  I  said  be- 
fore, be  sure  of  your  motive,  and  then  you  are  safe." 

"  But — but — Miss  Emma — " 

"But  what,  Anny  Ryan  ?" 

"  I  can't  just  spake  about  the  motive  as  you  do ; 
but  what  I  mane  is,  the  like  of  us  children  act  first, 
and  then,  if  we  get  into  trouble,  we  consider  of  it 
afterward." 

"  That  is  what  we  call  putting  the  cart  before 
the  horse,  Anny,  which,  you  know,  is  no  way  to 
get  forward.  You  are,  in  part,  right ;  it  takes  chil- 
dren some  time  to  learn  to  consider  before  they 
act — but  they  can  learn  it." 

"  Sure  they  can,  Miss  Emma ;  for  yesterday  was 


132  MILL-HILL. 

it,  when  I  was  home  at  Mrs.  0 'Neil's,  that  John 
and  Pat  got  into  a  bit  of  a  spree,  and  John  threw 
Pat's  ball  into  the  brook,  and  Pat  picked  up  a  stone 
to  throw  at  Johnny,  and  let  it  fall  again  ;  and  one  of 
the  boys  says  to  him, '  Pat,  for  what  don't  you  throw 
it V  'I  was  thinking,'  said  Pat, '  what  would  Miss 
Emma  say,  for  did  not  she  tell  us  last  Sunday  that 
it  was  quite  entirely  against  the  Bible  rules  to 
strike  back  again  V  " 

"  Thank  you,  Patrick,"  said  Emma  to  the  boy, 
who  looked  as  if  thanks  from  her  were  reward 
enough.  "  Oh,  children,"  she  continued,  "  you  know 
not  what  a  happiness  it  is  to  me  when  I  find  you 
acting  the  good  you  learn.  But  come,  the  sun  is 
getting  near  the  mountain,  and  we  are  far  away 
from  our  subject.  Can  none  of  you  think  of  any 
more  lessons  to  be  learned  from  Justyn  ?" 

"  I  was  thinking,"  said  one,  "  that  it  was  idle 
habits  that  was  the  beginning  of  Justyn's  ruin !" 

"  And  I  think,"  said  another,  "  that  we  might 
better  learn  to  put  up  with  what  we  think  is  pretty 
hard,  than  to  keep  changing  and  roving.  Mother 
says,  if  Justyn  had  only  been  content  to  stay  at 
Mr.  Lovejoy's,  where  he  had  nothing  to  complain 
of  but  the  old  gentleman  calling  him  up  before  light 
to  make  the  fires,  he  might  be  alive  and  well  now." 

Little  Sally  Lyn  once  more  spoke.  She  seemed 
to  have  the  faculty  of  always  getting  the  flowers 
without  the  thorns.  "  Miss  Emma,"  she  said, 
"  mother  says  that,  when  I  was  a  little  girl"  (she 
was  now  six),  "  Justyn  took  me  up  in  his  arms  and 
carried  me  half  a  mile  'cause  I  was  crying  with 
the  cold  and  did  not  love  to  walk.     Mayn't  we 


MILL-HILL.  133 

learn  from  that  it  is  a  great  deal  pleasanter  to  re- 
member the  kind  things  people  do  than  the  bad  V* 

Emma  took  Sally's  hand.  "  It  is  far  pleasanter, 
Sally,"  she  said  ;  and  added,  "  you  have  been  very- 
satisfactory  in  your  answers,  children  :  and  now,  as 
it  is  getting  late,  shall  I  tell  you  what  I  think  you 
may  learn  from  Justyn  ?" 

"  Oh  yes  !"  "  Oh  yes  !"  they  all  replied.  "  And 
Miss'  Emma  can  always  say  what  we  can  only 
think"  said  one. 

"  That  poor  body,  my  dear  children,  which  we 
have  seen  laid  in  the  grave,  was  so  made  as  to  be 
capable  of  being  the  instrument  of  much  usefulness, 
and  of  receiving  much  comfort  and  enjoyment.  It 
had  eyes  to  see  the  glorious  firmament,  the  rising 
and  setting  sun,  the  beauties  of  the  changing  sea- 
sons, the  hills,  the  fields,  the  running  waters,  all, 
and  much  more  than  our  eyes  now  rest  upon  with 
such  delight.  It  had  ears  to  hear  the  singing  of 
birds,  and  all  Nature's  sweet  sounds ;  and  that 
sweetest  of  all  sounds,  the  voices  of  dear  friends. 
It  had  the  delicate  organ  of  taste,  to  enjoy  what 
God  has  provided  to  nourish  us  ;  and  smell,  which 
performs  many  a  useful  and  pleasant  office  ;  and 
feeling,  without  which  that  best  of  all  tools,  the 
hand,  would  be  useless.  I  might  talk  a  year  to  you 
without  explaining  all  the  qualities  of  the  body,  or 
its  fitness  for  the  work  it  has  to  do  in  this  world ; 
but  these  few  words,  my  dear  children,  may  lead 
you  to  think  what  a  wrong  it  is  to  destroy,  or  even 
impair  it,  by  any  act  of  our  own  ;  what  a  pity,  like 
poor  Justyn,  by  doing  wrong,  to  lead  to  its  destruc- 
tion !" 

"  But,  Miss  Emma,"  interrupted  one  of  the  chil- 
M 


134  MILL-HILL. 

dren,  "  you  forget.  It  was  Martini's  blow  that 
finally  caused  Justyn's  death  ;  the  doctor  said  so." 

"  Yes  ;  but  if  Justyn  had  gone  straight  on  in  the 
path  of  duty,  he  would  never  have  met  Martini,  cer- 
tainly never  have  had  any  connexion  with  him. 
The  body  is  God's  building,  my  children,  and 
worthy  it  is  of  him  who  made  it,  and  made  it  to  be 
the  dwelling-place  of  the  soul.  When  you  think 
of  that  soul,  to  which  the  senses  are  but  ministers 
to  supply  it  with  knowledge  and  enjoyment ;  when 
you  remember  that  it  is  a  portion  of  God's  own 
spirit  (for  this  is  the  meaning  of  our  being  made 
in  God's  image)  ;  when  you  remember  that  it  can- 
not die,  and  that  it  is  to  be  judged-  according  to 
deeds  done  in  the  body,  does  not  such  a  life  and 
death  as  Justyn's  seem  to  you  most  sad  and  pitiful  ?" 

"  Oh  yes  !"  and  "  Yes,  indeed,  Miss  Emma !" 
echoed  from  every  side.  "  Then,  my  dear  chil- 
dren, strive  to  obey  the  laws  of  God,  difficult  though 
it  may  be.  Do  what  you  know  to  be  right,  and 
avoid  what  you  even  suspect  to  be  wrong.  Re- 
member what  I  have  so  often  told  you,  and  what  is 
verified  in  Justyn's  life,  that  we  are  ourselves  the 
cause  of  almost  all  our  sufferings.  And  remember 
what  I  so  frequently  repeat  to  you,  that  you  have 
great  privileges,  and  you  will  have  to  account  for 
them.  Your  existence  is  given  to  you  in  a  land 
that  may  be  called  the  poor  man's  country  In 
other  countries  people  are  driven  by  ignorance  to 
vice,  and  by  hunger  to  crime  ;  but  here  instruction 
is  offered  to  all ;  here  labour  calls  out  for  hands  ; 
here  ingenuity  and  perseverance  are  sure  of  reward; 
and  here  nothing  but  your  own  fault,  no,  not  even 
Buch  parents  as  Justyn's,  can  keep  you  from  the  so- 


MILL-HILL.  135 

ciety  of  the  good  and  respectable.  Then  go  ahead, 
my  dear  children.  Death,  we  know,  must  come  to 
all ;  but  death  comes  as  a  friend,  and  not  an  enemy, 
to  those,  whether  they  be  old  or  young-,  who  have 
obeyed  God's  law ;  and  this  they  will  do  if  they 
love  him,  and  Jesus  whom  he  has  sent ;  for  whom 
we  truly  love  we  obey." 

"  So  we  just  do,"  said  little  Sally  Lyn,  putting 
her  arm  affectionately  round  Emma. 

"  If  you  love  your  earthly  friends,  Sally,  you  will 
love  your  heavenly,  who  are  far  better.  Now, 
good-night,  my  children.  It  is  quite  time  to  be  at 
home." 

"  But  our  motto,  Miss  Emma  ;  you  have  forgot- 
ten our  motto !"  Emma  gave  them  each  week  a 
motto,  to  which  they  might  refer  their  conduct. 
She  replied,  "  No  day  without  a  deed  to  crown  it  I 
that  means  a  good  deed,  children." 

M I  guess  that  is  Miss  Emma's  motto  every 
week  !"  said  one,  and  "  No  day  without  a  deed  to 
crown  it !"  was  repeated  by  all  as  they  went  home- 
ward. 

Emma  and  Anny  went  in  a  different  direction 
from  the  rest ;  and  as  they  crossed  the  burying- 
ground,  they  passed  the  little  mound  over  Judy's 
grave.  Anny  kneeled,  kissed  it,  and  crossed  her- 
self; then  again  giving  her  hand  to  Emma,  they 
proceeded,  Anny  saying,  "  Never  will  I  forget  the 
lucky  day  I  first  met  you  here,  Miss  Emma,  and 
the  words  you  spake  to  me,  that  I  would  be  better 
and  happier  for  losing  all  my  people.  Forgive  me, 
Miss  Emma,  but  strange  words  they  seemed  to  me 
to  spake  to  a  lone  thing  that  had  buried  up  the  last 
she  loved.     But  now  I  see  they  were  truth  and  no 


136  MILL-HILL. 

mistake  at  all.  I  do  not  love  them  less,  but  it  is 
in  my  prayers  every  day  I  say  the  words  you 
said  to  me,  *  It  is  good  that  I  have  been  afflicted."1 " 
These  words  might  also  be  applied  to  Caroline's 
experience,  as  they  may  to  every  one's  who  rightly 
lays  to  heart  the  natural  trials  of  life.  By  natural 
trials  I  mean  those  that,  like  death,  are  of  God's 
appointment.  Caroline  is  now  humble,  and  no 
longer  the  selfish  girl  she  was,  since  she  is  will- 
ing her  faults  should  be  here  recorded  for  those 
who  will  profit  by  example. 


THE    BANTEM. 

A  STORY  WRITTEN  FOR  WILLIAM  T**###,  A  VERY 
LITTLE   BOY. 


"  DO  AS  YOU  WOULD  BE  DONE  BY." 

There  was  once  a  very  little  boy  whose  name 
was  Willie.  Willie's  mother  read  the  Bible  to  him 
before  he  could  read  himself,  and  when  he  did  not 
understand  she  explained  it  to  him.  She  talked  to 
Willie  about  Jesus  Christ,  and  Willie  knew  he 
came  from  God  to  teach  men,  and  women,  and  little 
children,  and  that  the  oldest  and  the  youngest  ought 
to  obey  what  he  commanded.  One  of  the  first  of 
Jesus's  rules  which  Willie  learned  was,  that  you 
should  do  to  others  what  you  would  have  others  do  to 
you.  When  Willie  first  learned  this  golden  rule 
from  the  Bible  he  thought  it  would  be  very  easy  to 
obey  it,  but  he  soon  found  it  was  not  so  very  easy. 

A  little  way  from  Willie's  father  there  lived  an 
old  woman  quite  alone.  She  had  not  one  child, 
not  so  much  even  as  one  grandchild  to  live  with 
her.  Willie  felt  sorry  for  her,  and  so  did  Willie's 
mother ;  and  if  she  got  a  pleasant  new  book  she 
would  send  it  to  Mrs.  Bemis  (that  was  the  old 
lady's  name)  to  read ;  and  often,  when  she  baked, 
M2 


138  THE    BANTEM. 

she  would  send  her  a  pie  or  a  custard.  Willie's 
father,  too,  was  kind  to  Mrs.  Bemis,  and  often  sent 
her  a  basket  of  strawberries,  or  a  mess  of  early 
peas,  or  some  other  rarity  from  his  garden.  Mrs. 
Bemis  was  not  poor.  She  had  plenty  to  eat.  But 
Willie's  parents  knew  that  it  is  a  great  pleasure  to 
die  old  and  lonely  to  be  remembered  by  the  young 
and  happy. 

One  day  Willie's  mother  gave  him .  a  large 
cookey.  Willie  was  not  hungry,  but  he  began 
eating,  and  ate  on  just  because  it  tasted  good.  A 
foolish  reason  for  eating,  is  it  not  ?  When  he  had 
eaten  half  the  cake  his  father  came  in  with  a  basket 
of  early  lettuces,  and  asked  Will  if  he  would  carry 
them  up  to  Mrs.  Bemis. 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir,"  answered  Willie  ;  "  and,  mother, 
I  will  carry  her  this  half  of  my  cookey,  and  that," 
he  added,  tossing  up  his  head,  and  feeling  very 
grand  and  generous,  "  will  be  following  the  rule — 
'  doing  as  I  would  be  done  by ;'  won't  it,  mother  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear  boy  ;  but  it  is  very  easy  for  you 
to  follow  it  now,  and  give  away  what  you  do  not 
want ;  but,  Willie,  I  hope  you  will  obey  it  when 
there  is  something  which  you  ought  to  do  for  others 
and  do  not  like  to  do." 

"  Oh,  yes,  mother,  I  will,"  replied  William,  feel- 
ing quite  sure  he  should  always  be  as  good  as  he 
ought  to  be.  Willie  had  forgotten,  perhaps  he 
never  knew,  that  it  is  sometimes  very  difficult  to 
do  the  thing  we  ought ;  but,  the  harder  it  is,  the 
better  we  feel  when  it  is  done. 

Well,  up  Willie  went  to  Mrs.  Bemis.  She  was 
very  glad  to  get  the  lettuces  ;  they  were  the  first 
she  had  seen  that  summer,  and  she  was  very  much 


THE    BANTEM.  139 

pleased  with  Willie's  present,  of  the  half  cookey, 
and  she  kissed  him,  and  thanked  him,  and  told  him 
she  had  been  looking  out  for  him.  Willie  could 
not  think  why  she  had  looked  out  for  him,  and  he 
asked  her  "  why."  "  I  will  tell  you,  Willie — you 
know  my  little  bantems  V* 

"  Oh,  yes,  ma'am — they  are  the  prettiest  ban- 
tems in  the  world." 

"  In  the  world,  Willie  ?  how  many  places  in  the 
world  did  you  ever  hear  of?" 

"Why,  Mrs.  Bemis,  I  have  heard  of  New-York, 
and  Stockbridge,  and  Lenox,  and  New  Lenox — is 
not  that  all  the  world  ?" 

Mrs.  Bemis  laughed.  She  did  not  say  that  was 
all  the  world,  but  she  said  she  was  quite  satisfied 
if  her  bantems  were  the  prettiest  in  all  the  world 
that  Willie  knew.  "  The  old  bantem  left  her 
chickens  yesterday, Willie,"  she  said;  "you know 
the  mother  always  leaves  the  chickens  as  soon  as 
they  are  able  to  take  care  of  themselves  V 

"Do  they?"  said  Willie;  "I  am  glad  boys' 
mothers  don't ;  I  am  old  enough,  to  be  sure,  to  take 
care  of  myself,  but  I  am  not  old  enough  to  part 
with  my  mother." 

"  Not  quite  old  enough  for  either,  Willie,"  said 
Mrs.  Bemis,  smiling.  "  Boys  at  four  years  old 
can't  take  as  good  care  of  themselves  as  chickens 
at  four  weeks.  But,  Willie,  I  was  going  to  tell 
you  that  I  took  two  of  the  chickens  off  the  roost 
last  evening,  and  put  them  in  a  covered  basket. 
One  I  mean  for  you,  and  the  other  for  your  little 
cousin  George." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Bemis — I  like  bantems, 
and  I  like  white  bantems  above  all  things — they 
look  so  cunning." 


140  THE    BANTEM. 

"  Well,  here  they  are,  Willie,"  said  Mrs.  Bemis, 
bringing  the  basket  from  the  door-step.  "  Carry 
them  home,  deary,  and  take  one  out,  and  ask  your 
father  to  carry  the  other  to  cousin  George  when 
he  goes  to  his  office — go  straight  home,  Willie, 
and  don't  take  off  the  cover." 

"  Oh,  yes,  ma'am,"  said  Willie  ;  and  he  was  so 
full  of  delight,  and  so  full  of  the  surprise  and  pleas- 
ure that  George  would  have,  that  he  ran  off  with- 
out thanking  Mrs.  Bemis  ;  but  he  soon  recollected 
himself,  and  ran  back,  saying,  "  Thank  you,  Mrs. 
Bemis,  a  thousand  times  for  my  bantem,  and  thank 
you  for  George's  too  ;  but  how  shall  I  know  which 
is  George's?" 

"  Oh,  it's  no  matter  which — they  look  just  alike  !" 

Away  again  Willie  ran.  When  he  was  half  way 
home  he  met  Russel  Sloane.  "  Oh,  Russel,"  he 
said,  "  guess  what  is  in  this  basket." 

"  Guess  !     I  guess  it's  nothing." 

"Well,  I  guess,  Mr.  Russel,  it  is  two  of  the 
completest  little  bantems  you  ever  saw." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,  Will." 

"  Then  you  may  just  look  for  yourself,"  replied 
Willie,  and  he  pulled  up  the  cover.  "  There,  an't 
they  bantems ;  see  how  white  they  are,  and  what 
cunning  short  legs,  and  web-feet?  Do  you  see, 
Russel  ?"  While  Willie  lifted  up  the  foot  of  one, 
the  other  hopped  out  and  would  have  escaped,  but 
Russel  caught  it.  "  Here,  just  put  it  in  my  apron, 
Russel.  I  won't  lift  up  the  cover  again.  Mrs 
Bemis  told  me  not  to,  but  I  forgot."  Russel  did  as 
Willie  asked  him,  and  Willie  ran  on,  till,  stumbling 
against  a  stone,  he  fell  flat,  on  his  face,  and  the 
basket   dropped  and  rolled  some  way  down  the 


THE    BANTEM.  Ml 

hill.  Willie  was  a  little  hurt  and  more  frightened, 
for  he  was  afraid  the  bantem  would  get  out  of  the 
basket ;  but  it  did  not,  and  on  he  went.  "  Oh, 
mother  I"  he  screamed,  as  soon  as  he  saw  his 
mother,  "  Mrs.  Bemis  has  given  me  one  of  her 
little  white  bantems,  and  one  for  George  too — is 
not  she  kind  1  Here  is  one  in  the  basket  and  one 
in  my  apron — see,  mother!"  and  he  opened  his 
apron  to  show  it.  "  Why,  what  ails  it  ?"  he  said  ; 
"  do  see,  mother,  how  its  head  hangs  down — it  don't 
move — mother,  do  look — what  is  the  matter?" 

Willie's  mother  took  the  little  bantem  in  her 
hands,  and,  seeing  it  could  not  move,  she  said,  "  I 
am  afraid  you  held  it  too  tight — you  have  smother- 
ed it,  my  child."  She  blew  in  its  mouth — that  did 
no  good ;  and  then  she  saw  its  neck  was  broken. 
She  told  Willie  so,  and  asked  how  it  could  have 
happened.  Willie  burst  into  tears,  and  said  it  must 
have  happened  when  he  fell  down.  He  cried  bit- 
terly, and  his  mother  tried  to  comfort  him.  Sud- 
denly he  stopped  crying,  and  said,  "  The  dead  ban- 
tem is  George's." 

"  Did  Mrs.  Bemis  say  that  was  George's,  Willie  ?" 

"  No,  mother,  but  she  said  it  was  no  matter 
which." 

"  But  it  is  now  a  great  deal  of  matter  which." 

"  I  know  it  is,  mother." 

"Willie,  supposing  Mrs.  Bemis  had  given  George 
the  chickens  to  bring  home  instead  of  you,  and  sup- 
posing he  had  run  carelessly,  as  you  did,  and  fallen 
down,  and  killed  the  chicken,  what  would  you  think 
he  ought  to  do  ?" 

Willie  hesitated — he  blushed  ;  tears  again  came 
into  his  eyes,  and  rolled  over  his  cheeks  ;  he  look- 


142  THE    BANTEM. 

ed  at  the  dead  bantem,  he  looked  up  in  his  mother's 
face,  and  then  he  said,  "  I  should  think,  mother, 
he  ought  to  give  me  the  chicken  ;  and,  mother,  I 
will  do  as  I  would  be  done  by.  George  shall  have 
the  live  bantem ;  but,  mother,"  he  added,  sobbing, 
"  it  is  just  as  you  said — it  is  not  always  very  easy 
to  do  as  we  would  be  done  by." 

"No,  my  child,"  replied  his  mother,  kissing 
him  ;  "  but,  now,  which  would  you  rather  have,  the 
remembrance  that,  when  it  seemed  very  hard,  you 
did  as  you  would  be  done  by,  or  the  bantem  V 

"  The  remembrance,  mother,  a  thousand  times  ; 
for  that  will  last  always,  you  know,  and  the  live 
bantem  must  die  some  time  or  other." 

The  bantem  was  sent  to  George,  and  which, 
think  you,  was  the  happiest,  Willie  in  sending  or 
George  in  receiving  it  ? 


THE    END. 


